


The Johns Green

by CertainlyUncertain



Category: Swindon Town Swoodilypoopers
Genre: Basically all the Swoodilypoopers doing Swoodilypooper things, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-01-26 11:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 165,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1686356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CertainlyUncertain/pseuds/CertainlyUncertain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Bennett didn't have high expectations on his first day as a Swindon Town Swoodilypooper. Then he met his coach, his team and his bald, mustachioed future husband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John, Meet John

**Author's Note:**

> This was written over the course of last year on FF.net, but I wanted to post it in its entirety here. This version is slightly nicer (fewer typos, etc), but it's all the same story. I might still add an epilogue.

* * *

It was raining in England.

John Bennett glanced at his watch and swore colourfully. Only he could manage to sleep through two alarm clocks on his first day. The rain dripped from his unkempt hair as he jogged the final few meters up the hill and through the stadium parking lot. The County Ground had an exterior of painted red and white concrete, with the main entrance on the west side of the building. Above the glass front doors was a large sign declaring it to be ‘The Home of the Swindon Town Swoodilypoopers’. John ignored the glass doors and continued running south, hugging the concrete wall until he found the much smaller, modestly sign-posted ‘player’s entrance.’

The crash bar made an almighty noise as John pushed his way through and into the hallway beyond. The air reeked of damp in the corridor that led down to the locker rooms. Decades of showers in poorly ventilated rooms left a clammy mist hanging permanently in the air. John’s feet echoed through the silent corridor as he approached the home locker room. He pulled up short, however, when he saw his new manager leaning against the wall of the corridor, evidently waiting for him.

The manager of Swindon Town was a chirpy, hyperactive young American by the name of John Green.

“John!” his manager exclaimed when he noticed John’s arrival. He thrust out his hand and shook John’s enthusiastically. “So glad you could join us! You get lost on the way?” The question wasn’t condescending or snide. He sounded genuinely concerned that John might have lost his way in getting to the stadium.

Accepting an out when it was handed to him, John nodded vigorously. “Yes, coach. Sorry, won’t happen again. You know how it is – new town ‘n all, coach.”

Manager John nodded sympathetically. “Not a problem! Don’t you worry about it! Let’s get out to the pitch though – the rest of the boys are anxious to finally meet you!”

Silently, John smiled and followed his manager as he led the way down the hall. Manager John was tall, mildly overweight and a little scruffy. He wore a pair of battered khaki shorts and a crumpled polo shirt. Now John came to thinking of it, he had never seen the man wear anything but polo shirts. Apparently this sartorial choice persisted even while in the midst of coaching a practice. His light brown hair was cut short, and his cheeks had a permanent rosy tint. He spoke with a jovial, lilting American accent that reminded John of a Hollywood director – all big arm gestures and buzzwords – and a nervous tick caused him to jump up and down on the spot when he was anxious. The overall effect wasn’t displeasing, but he had the unmistakeable air of an eccentric, which John found troubling. Manager John seemed nice enough, but he barely seemed able to control his own appearance, let alone a team of footballers.

"I really think you're going to like it here with the Swoodilypoopers," Manager John said as they walked.

John doubted this. Swindon Town was not what he had imagined for himself when he dropped out of sixth form to join the Liverpool junior league. A Liverpudlian born and raised, he used to have visions of rising quickly through the ranks to become the next great striker of his home team. He’d fallen prey to the hubris of youth. He had always been the star of his school's football team, to the point that he had come to believe that he might really be one of the best players of his age. The realization that he was not – not even close – had been a difficult one. So there he was, being traded to the Swindon Town Swoodilypoopers. The worst side in Britain, or near enough. This was his lot. Still, it was better, John told himself, to be in the starting line-up on a bottom league team than to sit idly on the bench in Liverpool. And so, repeating this to himself, he endeavoured to greet the world with a larger chin. He was determined join his new team with enthusiasm – however terrible they might well prove to be.

Within a minute, John and his new coach had emerged through the tunnel and onto the County Ground pitch. John blinked rapidly, adjusting to the change in light.

"I'm building a team here based on heart, leadership, and a little bit of moxie," John Green said as they began to walk around the perimeter of the pitch. His new teammates were already running drills, but John took a moment to take in his surroundings. The stadium didn't even begin to match the awesome size and majesty of Anfield, but it was comfortable and intimate. With its low tiers and close stands, it was an ideal stadium for a supporter; not one of the seats was far from the action on the pitch. "We've got no illusions here, John. We know we're the bottom of the league. We may well be the worst team in Britain, but that's going to change. In four years I plan for us to be in the Premiership, and I believe that you're going to be instrumental in getting us there."

_No illusions?_

"I'm excited to do my part, Coach," John replied. He knew that was the kind of thing you were supposed to say. In truth he was excited to do his part, but he didn't put much stake in the ludicrous goals of his bright-eyed, bushy-tailed new manager. Every manager from the Championship down dreamed of coaching their team to the Premiership, but John thought that the Swoodilypoopers had about as much chance as getting to the Premier League as he did of getting recruited back to play in Liverpool's starting line. John was all for ambition, but aiming for attainable goals was a lesson he had learned the hard way. He kept his opinions to himself as his new manager abandoned their walk around the field and led him towards his new teammates.

“Boys!” Manager John called out.

Obediently, the boys halted their warm-ups and looked over at the pair of them expectantly. “This here’s our new forward, John Bennett.” His Manager stood behind him, put a hand on each of John’s shoulders, and gave him a gentle shake. “Let’s give him a good first practice, shall we boys?”

John had a sudden memory of moving primary schools in Year 3 and being introduced in an embarrassingly similar fashion. The rest of the team didn’t seem to find it odd, however. They just let out a polite chorus of ‘hey’ of ‘hiya’ or ‘yes, coach,’ before turning back to resume their warm-up. It seemed that his coach had exaggerated when he’d said the boys were ‘anxious to meet him.’ Most of them seemed much more interested in the lap they were running than in greeting the New Kid.

“John.” His manager spun John around with one hand to look him in the eye. “I’m trying to build a strong team here and I need a strong pair of strikers to form the foundation of this club. So with that in mind, there's someone I'd like you to meet." His coach pivoted away and waved over a member of the team who had been warming up on the other side of the pitch. "John!" he called.

John had just enough time to think _another John?_ before this third John came into clear focus. This new John was so striking that John marvelled at how he had failed to notice him until now. The second thing John Bennett noticed about the man was how tall and built he was – both of which were relatively unusual in a footballer – but the first thing John noticed about him was his moustache. Perfectly bald, his moustache was the only hair on his head, and what he lacked in quantity of hair he more than made up for in quality. He could not be considered attractive – his jaw was too wide, his eyes too cold, and his brow too heavy – but there was something strangely enticing about him. This bald John had a reserved look about him that came across vaguely stern, like an irritated headmaster. John thought he looked much more like an effective leader of men than their eccentric coach.

"John," said John, "meet John."

"Hello," Bald John greeted him in an appealingly soft American accent, "I'm John Green." At this John did a double take, looking between his coach and his new teammate. They didn't look related, but they were both American and it seemed like a bit of a strange coincidence. John didn't need to ponder this oddity for very long.

"There's no relation," Manager John explained. "We just happen to both be named John Green." 

"Well," Bald John replied, "Coach says it's a coincidence. Some of us think he might be collecting players called John." At this Bald John’s lips softened into an easy smile. Despite himself, John felt his stomach somersault "you can call me Bald John if you’d like to avoid confusion. Everyone else does."

Bald John Green held out his hand, and John shook it warmly.

“So," Bald John said, his eyes suddenly alight with fire, "what do you say we play some football?" 

John had never in his life experience a practice like it. 

Bald John was a fierce footballer. His technique was flawless, and despite his build, he was remarkably light on his feet, his movements never clumsy or off-target. He was one of the most precise, powerful players that John had ever encountered. In fact, he was so good that John thought he must have been accidentally traded to the wrong team. _Isn't this supposed to be the worst team in the country? What are they doing with a player like this on their team?_

Despite his skill, he was also an infuriating teammate. For the first twenty minutes, he was a determined ball-hog. John may as well not have been on the pitch at all, for all the difference it made. The ball would arrive at Bald John’s feet, and wouldn’t leave until he either scored or was dispossessed.

It didn’t take long for John to become frustrated, running up and down the right side, waiting for his new co-striker to notice that he had teammates. At last, John accepted a pass from a dark-skinned mid-fielder whose name he didn’t know. He gave the man a fleeting, grateful smile, and began legging it towards the opposing box. A ginger-haired defender who’d been sorted into the opposing side barrelled towards John with a look of determination in his eyes.

“Bennett!” Bald John called to him. John looked up to find him open on the far left.

The play was obvious enough. John could pass to Bald John, feign left, overtake the ginger guy on the outside, position himself in front of the goal and easily put the ball past the overweight keeper, who had barely been able to run a lap of the pitch without wheezing like a dying cat.

Of course the play also hinged on Bald John picking up on the fact that he had teammates.

In a show of good-faith, John decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He clipped the ball over to Bald John’s waiting feet and ran wide, easily creating space between himself and the ginger defender. For a moment, John thought he might have over-estimated Bald John’s good sense. His co-striker looked almost surprised, as he ran towards the goal. John watched him with baited breath. _Pass. Come on, just one simple pass._ Finally, at the very last moment, Bald John looked up and locked eyes with John. The grin on Bald John’s face was captivating in the heartbeat before he passed the ball to where John stood, waiting to punt it into the bottom corner.

The second half of the practice could not have been more different to the first. Once Bald John was convinced that he had an asset in John, they turned out to play astonishingly well off one another. Their plays were rough around the edges, and far from perfect, but John felt his first real thrill of excitement. There might be more to this team than he’d first anticipated.

By the time their scrimmage was over, John was starting to feel downright optimistic about their chances. He and bald John began walking, side by side, back towards the locker rooms.

"Nicely done, Other John." Their overweight keeper walked up from behind and patted him so firmly on the back that John nearly fell over.

"Not sure how I feel about this new nickname," he commented to Bald John as three more players walked past him with greetings of 'Other John'.

Bald John laughed. "It could be worse," he said, "you could be bald." With a smile, he sidled closer as they walked and looped his right arm around John's shoulder, allowing his hand to run up into John's thick hair – which, John's thought uncomfortably, was probably still damp with sweat and grease. When John felt the other man's hand wind its way into his hair, his skin burned at the touch.

John clamped down on his sudden attraction fiercely. Feelings like that led to nothing but trouble. The only rule he had – the only one that mattered, anyway – was that his professional life and his personal inclinations remain strictly divided. Just imagining the reaction of his teammates if they knew the truth about him was enough to make John break out in a cold sweat. Besides, he reasoned, Bald John was clearly as straight as an arrow, so it would be a wasted effort.

Their coach was brimming with excitement when they all emerged from the showers to gather in the locker room half an hour later.

"I have a really good feeling about this season, Swoodilypoopers," he announce to them with all the pride of a pushy pageant mother. "You guys are just all heart, and we're going to get promoted this season, I can feel it. Anyway, that's enough from me. I'm sure you'll all want to give Other John a Swoodilypooper welcome down at the pub tonight. See you bright tomorrow morning lads for our morning warm-up and tactical practice before our next match tomorrow afternoon. Have a good night!"

As John began to gather up his things, it became clear to him that people did indeed intend to head to the pub.

"Alright then, OJ," John heard a distinctly London accent call out to him.

He turned to see the ginger defender from earlier saunter up and place an arm around his shoulder, right where Bald John's had been earlier. It didn't elicit anything close to the same reaction in John. "We've seen what you've got on the field, now it's time to see what you've got in the pub." Ginger laughed loudly at his own joke.

Before John was even given a chance to protest he found himself surrounded by half a dozen Swoodilypoopers, who seemed positively determined to get him to drink a pint with them. He smiled around at them and agreed, gathering up his things to follow them to the local.

“You comin’?” he asked Bald John as they threw their kit into Swoodilypooper-issue black duffel bags.

A look that John couldn’t place flashed across Bald John’s face. “Not this time. I’ve got somewhere I need to be.” Moments later Bald John had his bag packed and was giving John a small nod of parting. “See you tomorrow, Bennett.”

With nothing more than a flash of a smile, he was turning around and leaving. John watched his retreating back until he’d reached the end of the corridor, pushed through the heavy exit, and disappeared into the sunny afternoon.

Beyond attraction, John felt an all-encompassing desire to know the man who’d just left him behind. He was like an enigma. An American playing just-barely-professional English football. A fantastic player on a terrible team. A guarded smile and tired eyes. John wanted to be trusted by him. He wanted to be valued by him. To impress him. He’d never felt anything like the sudden attachment he had to this stranger. It scared the shit out of him.

John was shaken by his reverie when a heavy arm fell across his shoulder. The dark-skinned mid-fielder who’d played with John during their scrimmage had sidled up alongside him, duffle in hand.

“Pub?” he asked, grinning and open, easy grin.

“Yeah,” John nodded in reply.

“I’m Lee, by the way.” Lee extended the hand that wasn’t already resting on John’s shoulder, and John shook it, despite the awkward angle. “Come on,” without letting go of John’s hand, or waiting for John to reply, he began steering John down the hall towards the exit. “The Giraffe’s Head beckons. Just wait ‘till we’ve gotten a pint or two into Cutherbert. He does these impressions of the team, they’re proper legend.”

Grinning, John allowed himself to be led outside by his new teammate.

* * *

John Bennett's blood was singing as he raced into the box of the Bristol Rovers. He kept pace with his new co-striker, who was deftly maneuvering the ball around the Rovers defense. With a split-second sideways glance at his namesake, Bald John crossed the ball with a powerful drive through the inside of his left foot. John, not missing a beat, touched the ball once before hammering it through to the back of the net. As he watched the ball punch past the Rovers keeper, John let out a laugh of pure joy before he turned and found himself completely enveloped in an embrace by Bald John.

And then, all at once, the world completely fell away around him. The roar of the crowd in the Swindon stadium, the laughing and cheering of his fellow teammates, even the calls of the referees to resume play, all of it completely failed to register; John's entire world consisted only of Bald John Green. His arms were powerful and warm, wrapped firmly around his lower back, and John allowed himself a moment of weakness as he circled his arms around Bald John's neck. All he could smell was sweat, and dirt, and John. He felt thrilled, and proud, and strong. On the one hand he felt he could have run a marathon off the amount of adrenaline coursing through him, but on the other he didn't think he ever wanted to move again. John's emotions were such a mess of excitement and fear and chaos that he could not have even begun to untangle which were a result of his first ever goal with the Swoodilypoopers, and which the result of the man currently occupying his arms. The unmistakable feeling of lust, however, he was certain could be attributed to Bald John. He took one last deep breath of Bald John's scent before firmly extracting himself from the arms of his co-striker, lest his feelings get embarrassingly out of hand.

He grinned at Bald John as he took a couple of steps back. Bald John's eyes were sparkling with what John could only assume was excitement. Feeling bold, John winked at him before running back to their positions to resume play. 

As they began to play again, John felt light-headed. Immediately, he regretted winking at Bald John. Flirting of any kind, he knew, was an impulse he would need to completely shut down. It was only their first match together and already John felt that Bald John has made an irreversible impact on him. Football had never felt so good. He had never felt super-human in the way that he did as he tackled a Bristol mid-fielder for the ball and began racing back towards their side, with Bald John by his side. John was so torn between the ecstasy of playing with someone like Bald John, who was his perfect match in every way, and his crippling attraction for the man, which he knew was doomed to cause him nothing but trouble and pain.

Ultimately, one of John's favourite things about playing football was the way it allowed him to escape from the concerns and pressures of the real world. The only thing that ever mattered was the push and pull between the battling teams. The world was black and white in football. Us and them. Win or lose. The world of football offered a kind of clarity that John found was so rarely available off the pitch. He gave himself over to this clarity for the rest of the match, which allowed him to completely free his mind from the troubles that plagued him – at least for the remaining 57 minutes of play.

When the final whistle blew, John and the other Swoodilypoopers had won by one point to nil. It wasn't a wide margin, but three points were three points, and John was certainly proud of his goal and the team's effort as a whole.

John grinned all the way from the pitch back to the locker room, as many members of the team clapped him soundly on the back, or whooped out congratulations for being the only scorer of the match, and for his first ever goal as a member of their team. Leeroy Williamson gave him a high-five and promised him – in a much thicker American accent than Bald John – that he would buy him his first pint at The Giraffe's Head, their local pub. John laughed and thanked everyone jovially. John enjoyed a good drink with good friends, and he was excited to get to know his team better. His elation from winning the game failed to wear off, and he continued to grin like a child on a sugar-high as he stripped off his kit and wrapped a towel around his waist to head for the showers.

As he turned away from his locker, he noticed Bald John looking at him. No, not looking… gazing. Football locker rooms are always bustling with over a dozen semi-naked men, and John himself had seen a fair number of naked men in this strictly non-sexual context, and it was easy to tell the difference between glancing at someone, and looking at them. And Bald John had his eyes unmistakably fixed on John in such a way that he instantly felt his cheeks flush. But the moment lasted for no more than a second, as Bald John caught his eye and flitted his gaze to the floor in front of him.

Aim for attainable goals. Aim for attainable goals. John repeated to himself as he stood under the hot stream of the changing room showers. He had been imaging things. He was in such a crazed emotional state that he knew his own senses couldn't be trusted. John Bennett took the opportunity to make a mental list.

 

_Attainable Goals_

1) Win the upcoming match against Nottingham Forrest

2) Get to know the other Swoodilypoopers

3) Have a drink with Bald John Green

4) Become friends with Bald John Green

 

_Unattainable Goals_

1) Convince Bald John Green to fall in love with you

2) Have lots of sex with Bald John Green

3) Marry Bald John Green

4) Play in the starting line for a Premiership club

5) Beat Chelsea at Stamford Bridge

In general John considered himself to be an extroverted, outgoing, upbeat and optimistic person, but life had also made him rational, practical and earnest. He had discovered first-hand that wanting things you will never have is a crushing feeling, and as far as possible he tried to avoid experiencing it. Aim for attainable goals.

John had so firmly retreated into his own head as he pulled on his jeans and grey Henley hoddie that he flinched when he felt a hand on his shoulder. The hand immediately retreated and John turned around to find Voluptuous Pericard standing behind him. Cteve, Ginger, Leeroy, Bald John, Fat Lucas and Fitz Hall were standing a few feet away, chatting and checking their phones.

"Sorry," John apologized to Voluptuous.

Voluptuous just smiled, clearly not phased.

"We were just going to head to The Giraffe's Head, if you wanted to join us?" 

"Yeah, wicked," John said eagerly. "I just need to get my stuff together. Go on, I'll meet you there in a minute."

Voluptuous and the others left while John threw his kit into the laundry pile, checked his phone, put his wallet in his pocket. It was only as he was pulling on his shoes that he noticed Bald John leaning against the wall near the exit to the locker rooms.

"Hey," John said as he approached. "I thought you would have gone with the others."

Bald John shrugged. 

"I wasn't sure if you knew the way to the pub, so I thought I'd stay and walk with you."

"Oh," John replied. "Isn't it the pub we went to last night?"

"Right," Bald John nodded. "Of course, you went there last night." John noticed a blush creep across the skin around Bald John's ears. He smiled. So the mysterious Bald John Green does have a tell after all.

"Thanks though," John said, "I mean, I think I do know the way. But… thanks… anyway. You know… for the thought…" Idiot. Could you possibly sound like a bigger idiot?

They both stood looking at each other for another awkward moment before, in tandem, they moved towards the door.

The pub was only about a mile away, and they walked in a comfortable silence for a few minutes as they exited the stadium and followed the main road down to the outskirts of Swindon town. 

"Can I ask you something?" John said without raising his eyes from the pavement in front of him.

"Shoot," Bald John replied. The phrase was so American that it made John smile.

"Don't take this the wrong way or anything," John glanced at Bald John as they walked, "but you're way too good a player for Swindon Town. Why haven't you been traded?"

Bald John looked over at John and let out a brief chuckle.

"You don't beat around the bush, Bennett." That was certainly true. John had a very low tolerance for bullshit, which tended to make him a bit more blunt than was generally considered polite by most people.

"Sorry," John quickly realized he had overstepped some kind of line. "That's obviously a really personal question. Forget I asked."

"I've had offers," Bald John said. John had expected as much. No way a player as good as Bald John had gone unnoticed by other managers.

John looked up at Bald John again, waiting for him to answer the question. A look crossed over Bald John's face, though John did not know him nearly well enough to be able to understand its meaning. Instead of answering the question, they continued to walk together in silence for such a long time that John was certain he had insulted Bald John, who was clearly not going to respond any further. It was only as the pub came into view and they neared its entrance that John heard Bald John's quiet response.

"This is my team." 

Before John had a chance to respond, Cteve – who had been loitering outside for a cigarette – spotted them and called over.

"Oi! Johns! We're all in there. Go get lashed, mates!" Both Johns laughed at their friend, who had clearly already made his way through at least two pints in the time it took them to arrive.

They entered the pub together and found half the team sat in the same corner of the pub they had all occupied the previous night. John was beginning to get the sense that this was a pattern. As they sat down they were both immediately handed two pints each, one from Leeroy and one from Fitz Hall, both of whom had promised to buy them the first round.

John found that the more he got to know the members of the team individually, the more he enjoyed their company. He laughed as they teased him about his northern accent, or as they casually threatened his life for his die-hard support for Liverpool FC.

"If the Swoodilypoopers ever make it to the Premiership, then I might reconsider my support, but until such time I will cheer as I please, thankyouverymuch!" John declared with a laugh, to much whooping and booing from his teammates.

And so the drinks flowed and the evening progressed, and the Swindon Town Swoodilypoopers unwound in a spirit of camaraderie rather than debauchery. At one point, Cutherbert covertly slipped a penny into Cteve's fifth pint, which – according to the sacred law of pennying – forced him to down the fresh drink in one go, as the boys cheered.

John knew an evening of drinking in the pub was childish, but they didn't have practice the following morning, and he was pleased to have a chance to get to know his teammates. He had only moved to Swindon a week before he joined the team, so he really had had no other chance to get to know anyone else in town, and if spending an evening as a proper football lad was the way to ingratiate himself with his new family, he was happy to indulge.

After a couple hours a few of the teammates made their excuses. Voluptuous insisted he promised Alice he'd be home within the hour, and Fitz Hall was meeting his girlfriend. Eventually, the evening broke up when the pub began to close with Ginger, Cteve, Fat Lucas, and the Johns the only remaining Swoodilypoopers. Ginger, Cteve and Lucas, however, were keen to keep the party going into the night and insisted to John that he come with them to the local nightclub, Lava.

John was not keen on nightclubs, but a voice inside his head said well, maybe… if Bald John was going… But the thought died as soon as it had come. Bald John picked that moment to stand up and declare it a night. He hugged Ginger, Cteve and Lucas goodnight, glanced at John, and then left. The action left John feeling hollow. He knew it was irrational, but he couldn't help the feeling of rejection that boiled in his stomach. He supposed they had only just met, they did not know each other as well as Bald John knew the rest of them. But still, that hadn't stopped Bald John from hugging him into oblivion that afternoon.

John quickly made his excuses to the others and rushed out of the pub in pursuit of Bald John.

"Hey!" John jogged to catch up with Bald John, who had barely left the parking lot by the time John was level with him.

"Hey," Bald John replied, looking puzzled. "Aren't you going with the others to Lava?"

"Well," John replied with a flash of his smile, "I would, but I wasn't sure if you knew the way to your house, so I thought I'd come and walk with you." _Damn it, John, what happened to not flirting?_

Bald John laughed and the sound made John's heart expand. How can one man have this kind of an effect on me? Together they walked towards the town. The nice thing about living in a place like Swindon, as opposed to Liverpool, was that nothing was very far from anywhere. It was an easy walk from the centre of town to the stadium, which was a big part of what made it so easy for the team to go for drinks after most games.

John realized as he walked that he was rather more drunk than he had intended to be. His mind was hazy around the edges, and he was sure that he was not walking in as straight a line as he might normally. As a result, he bumped into Bald John on more than one occasion, which never failed to make his pulse jump. He apologized quietly each time his arm or hand brushed Bald John's.

"You don't like to be touched, do you?" Bald John finally asked him. The question took John so by surprise that he nearly stopped walking right in the middle of the sidewalk. What's more, Bald John's tone had not really been one of a question, but more as though he was making some kind of mental note.

"I –" John wasn't too sure how to even begin answering the question. A thought suddenly occurred to him. "Is that why you didn't hug me goodnight?" he asked. 

Bald John shrugged.

"That was a part of the reason." Ever the man of few and carefully phrased words. John found this answer even more frustrating.

"What was the other part?" He asked. John could feel his heart beating erratically in his chest.

Again Bald John Green failed to answer a direct question. John was beginning to find reading Bald John agonizingly difficult.

"You never answered my question," Bald John finally said.

John hesitated. He knew it would be a lot easier if he just lied, said he didn't like being touched, and leave it at that. But he found the words died in his throat before he could say them.

"I don't not like being touched," he finally answered. "But…" there was no way to answer this question without things getting complicated. "I just… I guess I'm kind of jumpy," he finished lamely.

They walked in silence again for a little while. John was aching to ask Bald John everything about his life. He wanted to know this closed book of a man. He wanted to understand what the unreadable expressions in his eyes meant; he wanted to ask him why an American would dedicate his life to a football club in Swindon. He wanted to make Bald John laugh again. He wanted to hug him again. He wanted all of it so much, that fear prevented him from acting at all.

All too soon, they had somehow arrived in the town centre.

"Whereabouts are you going?" Bald John asked him.

John looked around. They were near Queen's Park.

"I live just a minute away, on Durham St," John said.

"Oh great, that's on my way. I live just a few minutes down on Cricklade St."

Together they turned to the right towards John's house, and in no time at all they were standing outside of his front door.

"Well I guess I'll see you on Monday for our next practice," Bald John said. He halfway raised his arms for a hug and then seemed to think better about it and dropped his arms again. "See you later, Bennett," Bald John said, before he began to continue down the road.

"Wait!" John nearly yelled. Bald John looked back at him, and John tried to remind himself to breathe. "I mean, it's not that late. You could come in for a drink, you know, if you want."

Another look that John could not decipher came across Bald John's face. After a moment's pause, he smiled and let out a brief laugh.

"Sure. I'd like that." 

* * *

John fumbled with his key to the front door, though whether from the drinks or nerves he could not have said. He finally managed to push his way into his small, though comfortable, two bedroom semi-detached home. He dropped his keys into the dish on the front table and ushered Bald John through the entrance. There was a steep set of stairs at the end of the short hallway, which led up to the bedrooms and the bathroom, while to the left the bottom floor opened out into a spacious living room. A small wall of windows on the left provided excellent natural light during the day, though gold and green curtains were draped over them at night. A twin-seat leather sofa was set up in one corner of the room in front of a small television on the opposite wall. Next to the television, the rest of the wall was dominated by a massive bookshelf, though almost all of the books still sat in boxes on the floor in front of the shelves, waiting for a day when John Bennett could be bothered to fully unpack his belongings.

In addition to the piles of unpacked boxes, there were a number of posters and prints in frames, leaning against the side of the couch. These ranged from a large print of Jackson Pollock's Lavender Mist to a historic map of Northern England from the 16th century. There were also some smaller frames hidden in and amongst the debris of boxes with pictures of John's friends and family, all of which he had been planning to mount on the walls at some point, but had found that such a task quickly fell to the bottom of any to-do list.

"Sorry about the mess," John said as they both walked into the living room. "I only moved in a week ago and I haven't quite come around to unpacking."

"Don't worry, I like it." Bald John really seemed to mean it.

He didn't just do a cursory glance around the room but looked around intently, as though trying to glean as much as he could about John through any little clues he may have left lying around. John silently hoped beyond hope that he had remembered to clear his laundry off the drying rail at the back of the kitchen.

"This is a great place," Bald John said as he continued to look around.

"Thanks. I was pretty lucky to find it, since I had to move here in a bit of a rush. Only problem is that it's a two bedroom and the rent is a bit steeper than I would like, so if you know anyone looking for a place to live…" John half-laughed because he didn't want Bald John to think he was already trying to extract a favour when they had only met the day before.

But Bald John did not seem to think there was anything wrong with the comment. Quite the opposite, he had another one of those odd and completely inscrutable looks on his face. He could not be sure, but John was starting to think this particular expression meant there was something he wanted to say, but he had already decided he was not going to.

"So…" John broke the tension when he realized he had been staring at Bald John's face for longer than was generally considered polite in social situations. "What would you like to drink?"

"I'm happy with anything," Bald John replied.

When John tried to think about what he had to offer, a sinking feeling abruptly took hold of him. He was almost certain that he had no alcohol of any kind in the house. John was more of a social drinker, and didn't ever feel the need to buy beer or wine unless he was entertaining, and he had not been expecting to need to entertain someone that evening. Bollocks. 

"Umm, let me just check what I've got in the fridge," John stalled. He knew it was pointless, but he indicated that Bald John should take a seat on the couch, while he walked through the door at the back of the living room, which led into his kitchen.

The kitchen had wooden floors and counter-tops, with a small table and three chairs tucked in one corner. As kitchens went it had all the necessary amenities, but was generally devoid of personality or charm. John went to his fridge and continued his charade of hunting for alcohol, which he knew he would not find. Predictably, his fridge held apples, two pints of milk, a half-eaten jar of pasta sauce, and some butter. And that was literally everything. Sighing, John shut the fridge harder than he intended to in frustration. He checked the cupboards just in case he had a bottle of scotch or whiskey – neither of which he drank, but he felt the need to check anyway. Again, he was disappointed. He turned around to head back into the living room and confess his utter lack of drink options to Bald John, when he found that Bald John was already in the kitchen, leaning nonchalantly against the door frame. John nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise. Bald John laughed.

"I didn't mean to scare you. I just heard noise and thought I'd come and see if you need a hand with the drinks," he said.

"Right," John hesitated, "Umm, yes, well, about the drinks…"

"You don't have any?" Bald John asked with a smile. "Your somewhat desperate cupboard rummaging did suggest that to me." Again Bald John laughed, and John found that he didn't even mind it being at his expense, so long as he could keep enjoying the sound.

"Umm… yes. Which is to say… No. I don't have any. Sorry." John continued to marvel at how he constantly seemed to feel like an idiot who was barely capable of stringing a sentence together in Bald John's presence.

"Not to worry," Bald John replied. "I like water. I'm a big fan of water, me."

"Well you don't quite have to settle for water," John said. "I think I can just about rise to a cup of tea. Wait, let me check," John rushed to a tin that was sitting on the kitchen counter and pulled it open. The tin was completely filled with teabags. "Yes, I can definitely manage tea. If you're very lucky I might even have some milk."

"Well, well," Bald John's smile had only grown wider since he entered the kitchen, "don't sell yourself short, Bennett. In my books tea definitely counts as a drink."

Before John ever had a chance to wait on him the way a proper host should, Bald John had marched directly to the kettle on the kitchen counter, filled it with water, and flicked it on. John, in turn, pulled his ceramic teapot (with matching knit-wool tea-cozy, naturally) from the shelf and filled it with a couple of teabags. Together the Johns bustled around the small kitchen with much the same intuitive sense of each other's movements that they had on the pitch. The experience already felt comfortable, like it was routine. John ducked under Bald John's arm to retrieve a packet of biscuits while Bald John danced around him to fill each of their mugs with milk. Vaguely, John wondered how Bald John knew he took milk with his tea.

John finished piling the biscuits onto a plate and carried them to the kitchen table at almost the exact moment that the kettle clicked decisively. Bald John filled the teapot, placed the tea cozy over it, and followed John to the table. 

"For something so English, you've clearly picked up how to make a proper cup of tea," John remarked.

"Well, obviously," Bald John replied. "I'm not sure they would have granted me my visa otherwise. First thing you learn as an American living in England is how to make a cup of tea. Well, no," he corrected himself, "the first thing you learn is to look in the right direction when you cross the street. But then it's the tea thing."

John laughed and marveled when he realized that might be longest he'd ever heard Bald John speak without interruption. He was desperate to hear more.

They sat down together at the table and waited for the tea to steep while they nibbled absently on slightly stale Hobnobs. Finally, John's desire to know as much as possible about the enigma sitting across from him could be held back no longer.

As he poured the tea and they sipped away at their respective mugs, John began to ask him about everything and anything. And slowly, ever so slowly, Bald John began to draw back the curtain.

As they drank their tea, and the following cup, and as they re-boiled the water for even more tea, Bald John talked about his family back in West Virginia, about his interests, about university, and about football, both English and American. And with every passing hour, John Bennett became increasingly convinced that John Green was out of his league in almost every way. The man was fiercely intelligent, driven, passionate and loyal to a fault. 

John had initially thought of Bald John as being quiet and withdrawn, but he soon realized how wrong he was. What John had taken for being insular, was in fact a profound economy of movement and language. He rarely used ten words when three would suffice, and he never fidgeted. Much like his behaviour when he played football, Bald John was precise and purposeful right down to his very nature. Despite this, John found that when he really got talking it was with fervor and blazing enthusiasm. His eyes sparked with love when he talked about his hometown, his parents, and his sports. He was also a fountain of knowledge about politics, the vital role of local government, and social policy. He also knew much more than the average person about Ancient Roman political history. He both thrilled and intimidated John to the point that he felt he could barely compete on any intellectual or emotional level.

In turn, John shared snippets of his own life story. He described how he had left sixth form before graduating to pursue football, and how his failure to compete at the highest professional level had impacted him as a player and a person. He explained that football had dominated so much of his life for so long that he feared he had missed out on other crucial life experiences as a result. And when Bald John asked him about his interests beyond football, John talked about how the fact that he had never gained any formal qualifications bothered him, so whenever he had the time he liked to try and teach himself as much as he could about as many subjects as he could.

"I'm not so much interested in knowing everything about one thing, but my goal is to know something about almost everything."

It was also a point of pride for him that – while trying to be as tactful as possible regarding Bald John's experience at university – he could teach himself a great deal without ever needing to spend any money at all on formal education.

"… so if you were to look in one of those boxes," John indicated vaguely towards the living room, "you would find some books by Dawkins, and others by Hardy. Some of those books are about contemporary art movements of the 20th century, and others are about particle physics."

Bald John laughed. "And you think I'm over-educated?"

John shrugged. "I guess I just have a wide variety of taste."

Eventually, ten mugs of tea and the last of the Hobnobs later, and many hours after John Green arrived at his house, John was showing him out at the door. Neither of them was particularly keen for the evening to end, but it was five in the morning and the pre-dawn light was starting to peek through the kitchen windows, so it seemed futile to pretend the evening was still ongoing.

"I had fun, Bennett," Bald John said. 

That statement struck John as something of an understatement. The night had been a complete revelation. For one, John was just now beginning to feel – hours of conversation later – that he might, possibly, be getting a handle on Bald John Green. For another, John did not think that he ever wanted to part from the man's company again.

"Yeah, me too."

John opened the latch on the front door and held it for Bald John, who walked through into the dawn. But before leaving the top step of John's house, he looked back.

"John, what you were saying earlier, about needing a flatmate…"

"Mmm?"

"I'm actually looking for a place. Of course, only if you wanted…"

John was dumbstruck.

"I – umm… really? But haven't you been with the Swoodilypoopers for a few months?" John knew that he had only joined the team relatively recently, but surely long enough that he would have already found a flat. It was only then that he noticed the blush colouring Bald John's ears.

"Yes," he replied slowly. John recognized Bald John's expression this time when he saw it. There was something he wanted to say that he clearly did not want to talk about it. Be that as it may, his next sentence came out in a calm, collected voice. "But my wife moved out a couple weeks ago, and the house is far too big for one person."

* * *

Sleep did not come easily to John Bennett when at last he managed to stumble into bed.

He knew he was being irrational, but he couldn't prevent the weight in the pit of his stomach that accompanied Bald John's casual bombshell earlier that morning.

"But my wife moved out a couple weeks ago, and the house is far too big for one person."

"Oh."

At first it had been the only thing that John could think of to say. And then, with a jolt, he remembered how to be a compassionate human being.

"God, I'm so sorry. I had no idea." He knew his voice sounded strained and the sentiment rang hollow and false, but he hoped that Bald John would attribute it to the early hour and lack of sleep.

"Thanks," Bald John replied. That infuriating look of having more to say but preventing himself once again came over Bald John's features. After another pause, "It was a long time coming," was all he managed to say. 

At that moment a crisp morning breeze decided to whip through the front door, shattering their fragile intimacy by reminding them both that Bald John had been on his way out. And so he left with a smile, a half-wave, and a promise to see him at practice on Monday.

All of which had brought John Bennett to an uneasy attempt at sleep.

 _Married? Well, of course. Why shouldn't he be married?_ John kept telling himself, over and over again, that it wasn't a betrayal. Bald John owed him less than nothing, and there was no reason for John to feel like he'd been clubbed over the head with a croquet mallet. And yet… John hadn't imagined the flirting, had he?

John was so tired and dazed that he could barely trust his own memories of the past 48 hours since he'd met John Green. Maybe he had been reading far too much into his two-day old relationship with his co-striker. He did not trust his ability to read Bald John's closed features, nor did he trust that everything they had said and done was not perfectly within the bounds of a typical friendship between co-workers. Every way that John tried to approach the problem, he was brought him back to the same inescapable truth: Bald John Green was straight. John had always suspected this was the case, but he had slowly been allowing himself to hope. And hope, John knew, was a painful thing to lose.

As if all of this were not bad enough, John was additionally weighed down by Bald John's interest in living with him. Again, John found himself attempting to rationalize with his own mind. Bald John Green is straight, so what does it matter if we live together? And yet John could not convince himself on this particular point. John knew that following their extraordinary evening together, he would find it near-impossible to ignore his attraction to the man while they worked together, let alone the potential for agony if they lived together. No matter how much John wanted to be able to accept, he was certain that it would lead to nothing but trouble for him down the line.

Finally resolved to decline Bald John's request to move in, still John lay awake for what little remained of the early morning, desperately trying to come up with the words to say it. 

The afternoon sun was streaming through the westward-facing window of John's bedroom when he groggily dragged himself out of bed. The cheap analogue alarm clock on his bedside table informed him that it was half-one. Swearing, John heading to the bathroom in a futile attempt to wake himself up. He washed, dressed and drank a cup of coffee, but still the groggy after-effect of waking up midway through the day refused to dissipate. It reminded him sharply of the feeling after a night out when he tried to piece together whether or not he had done or said something embarrassing the night before. John was already petrified that Bald John would see right through him to his barely controlled feelings. It little helped matters that John knew his face was an open book, whereas Bald John's features were under a lock and key. This imbalance made John uneasy, as though they were playing football on a slanted pitch.

Finally, determined to shake off his concerns, John changed into some tracksuit bottoms, an old Liverpool FC t-shirt, and a hoodie. He needed to go for a long, long run. Without any further hesitation, John was out the door and taking off down the road.

* * *

While running had been a good plan in theory, there was an obvious flaw in this plan. Running was an invigorating and pleasurable experience, but it lacked the motivation of football. In particular, John was not so easily able to block out the noise of his own thoughts. Quite the opposite, the only thing there was to do while running was to ruminate.

And so, instead of suppressing them, all of John's concerns and anxieties from the night before came bubbling back to the surface and consumed him as he ran. Would Bald John be insulted by John's refusal to live with him? What if he was angry – or worse, upset? John couldn't see a way to decline Bald John's interest without seeming unforgivably rude. John through Queen Victoria Park wrapped so tightly in his own thoughts that he didn't notice the petite blonde woman running in the opposite direction. As she took her eyes from the path in front of her to fiddle with her iPod, John careened clean into her. They hit each other with enough force that they both stumbled back.

"Sorry!" they shouted in unison.

"Don't worry about it," the girl said sheepishly in a thin Scottish accent. "It was absolutely my fault." 

John studied the woman in front of him. Her blonde hair was tied behind her head in a messy ponytail, but her fringe was sticking to her sweaty forehead. She was blushing furiously from having collided with John, her running clothes were unflattering and well-worn, and her breathing was coming in puffs. But despite all of these things, she was young and unmistakably pretty. John had no doubt that she could clean up well. She rubbed the side of her right arm, where John had slammed into her.

"You alright?" he asked, indicating her arm.

"Yeah, I'm fine." She stopped rubbing her arm, as if to prove the point. "I've had worse, anyway." The girl chuckled as though this comment was somehow funny, but it if it was a joke, John failed to understand.

He gave her a tentative smile all the same, and was about to start running again when she spoke again.

"Wait, I know you! You're John Bennett, aren't you?" This held John up short. He was sure that he had never met this woman, but she clearly knew who he was.

"Uh, yeah…" John replied warily.

The woman laughed. "Oh that's brilliant! Peter and I were going to come interview you at tomorrow's practice, anyway, but I've really been looking forward to meeting you. Especially after your match yesterday. I've been watching Bald John play since he arrived and I have to say, as good as he is, I've never seen him play the way he did yesterday. You two are really something together, I can't wait to watch how your season progresses!"

For a brief moment, John was completely stunned.

"I'm sorry, are you a… fan?" Beyond his sister, John had never in his life encountered anyone who showed that kind of interest in his professional life.

This question seemed to puzzle the woman. "Well… no. Err, yes. I'm the sports photographer for the _Swindon Town Gazette_. But, yes, I am a big fan."

John felt a tiny tinge of disappointment that this woman was actually in the business, but it quickly dissipated in the light of her unbridled enthusiasm.

The woman laughed again. "Sorry, this must be really weird for you." She held out her hand for John to shake. "I'm Hannah McMillan."

"John Bennett," John replied. Neither of them mentioned that his introducing himself was completely redundant.

"So, John," Hannah said, "fancy a jogging buddy for the rest of your run?"

When Hannah smiled, her whole face – bedraggled and still red with the effort of running though it was – lit up. Despite the concerns that still weighed on his mind, John found her utterly charming.

"Sure," he said with a half-smile. "Why not? That is, if you think you can keep up." John couldn't resist the small tease, his social instincts telling him that Hannah would react well to it. 

So she did. With a playful swipe of his arm, she took off down the park path, not even bothering to check whether John was following her.

John quickly discovered how much he enjoyed Hannah's company. Her laughs came with ease and great frequency. She chatted effortlessly, and greeted other people in the park with grins and a wave as they jogged past. They continued running together as Hannah gossiped with him about the weather, the cultural hotspots of Swindon, photography, and most of all football. Hannah had been working for the Swindon Town Gazette for nearly five years and in that time had become an ardent Swoodilypoopers supporter. John was embarrassed to admit it, but Hannah was much better informed about his own team than he was. She talked at length about Voluptuous' family, Cteve's past indiscretions, and their Assistant Coach's past with the Tottenham Hotspurs. But when it came to discussing Bald John Green's arrival to the team, John was surprised that Hannah seemed to know nothing about Bald John's estranged wife.

"Yes, well Bald John's a wee mysterious, isn't he?" Hannah asked with a conspiratorial smile as they continued to jog. But she said very little more. John had the impression that she was withholding some things, though he didn't push it. He wasn't much of a gossip (though for Bald John he definitely would have made an exception), and since Hannah was in the press, he wasn't too sure how much off the record information it was morally acceptable to share.

Several miles and nearly an hour later, Hannah and John gave up on their run, thoroughly exhausted. Even so, they cooled down with an aimless walk, enjoying the surprisingly warm Sunday afternoon.

Hannah liked to talk about the Swoodilypoopers, but she was even more interested in learning more about "the mysterious John Bennett and how he's going to rescue our beloved Swoodilypoopers from any further humiliation." John, however, could never quite forget that she was a member of the press. As a result, he found himself unable to share anecdotes, thoughts and concerns in quite the same way that he had with Bald John.

Instead, his conversation with Hannah rested on the surface of the water, but John found he was perfectly content for them to remain there. Not every friend is the kind that drinks tea at your house until half five in the morning. Still, John felt confident when they finally parted ways at the edge of the park, that he was well on his way to becoming friends with Hannah McMillan.

* * *

When John finally returned to his house, the late afternoon sun was just beginning to set behind the row of houses, and John thought longingly of a hot shower.

He stopped dead on the walkway up to his house, however, when he saw the man sat hunched over on his front step. Bald John was staring at a crack on the pavement with such a far off expression that John could only assume he had been sitting there for quite a while. His head snapped up when John approached and stood up stiffly. He subtly shook his left foot to resume proper blood flow. _He really has been here for a while._

"Hey," Bald John said. For the first time, John thought he heard a hint of uncertainty in his voice. It sounded like something along the lines of nervousness or embarrassment.

"Hey," John replied. "How long have you been sitting out here?"

"Not too long," Bald John dismissed with a slight wave of his hand. "I was going to call you when I realized I didn't know your number. So then I thought I'd come round, but you weren't in."

"So you waited?" It wasn't really a question, because it was perfectly clear that Bald John had been waiting for him, but John had trouble understanding how anything could be so important that Bald John would waste half his day on John's front step.

Bald John shrugged but supplied no response. There was really nothing he could say.

"Well, come on in." John felt irrationally guilty for having been out for so much of the afternoon. He would have come home much sooner if he had known who was waiting for him.

Bald John moved to the side while John fished his key from out of his tracksuit pocket and pushed his way into the house.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" John asked. He threw his keys onto the hallway table as usual and walked into the living room. Bald John followed behind him, but he seemed reluctant, as though now that he was finally inside, he really couldn't wait to leave.

"No thanks," Bald John replied, polite and succinct as ever.

"Okay…" John leaned against the back of his sofa, peering over at Bald John, who stood awkwardly in the doorway between the hall and the living room. John was about to tell him about his (literally) running into Hannah, thinking that an anecdote might break up the odd tension, when Bald John began to speak.

"I came to apologize," he said abruptly.

"For what?" John's mind immediately rushed ahead of him. Is he sorry for flirting? For leading me on? For not telling me about his wife?

"For asking to move in." Obviously. John mentally kicked himself for assuming that it was anything even remotely romantic. "That was unfair. To put you on the spot like that. I don't even know why I asked; I'm not usually so impulsive. You just –" Bald John cut himself off as though he was about to say something but decided mid-sentence that he would rather not say it. "It doesn't matter. Just forget I even mentioned it."

The strange tightness in his chest that John was coming to associate with Bald John's presence was back in full force. Bald John leaned his left shoulder against the door jam and seemed determined to stare at the carpet, intentionally avoiding eye contact.

But even without looking into Bald John's remarkable eyes, John was completely struck by the beauty of the man in front of him. He was certainly not good looking in a thick haired, tan skinned, chiseled-face-of-a-film-star kind of way, but he was definitely beautiful. His arms were loosely crossed over his chest, showing off the defined muscles of his forearms. His skin was smooth and so lightly freckled that John might never have noticed if he had not been studying the man so intently. He was slightly taller and older than John, but his current pose and downcast eyes were strikingly vulnerable, and John felt an inexplicable desire to protect the man in front of him at any cost.

His attraction in that moment was so profound that in retrospect John would come to think that he had temporary lost his sanity.

"I don't want to forget you mentioned it," John was saying before any logic or self-preservation had time to kick in. "I want you to move in."

* * *

Even after John's sanity had returned to him, he couldn't regret his decision to invite Bald John to live with him. He wanted nothing more than to spend as much time as possible with Bald John, so aside from the fact that he would be constantly battling a tidal wave of attraction to the man, he thought he might really enjoy having Bald John for a housemate. And so they agreed that he would begin moving his stuff the following day after practice.

As John lay in bed that evening, sleep came much easier than it had the previous night. By that time tomorrow, he and Bald John would be sleeping under the same roof, and John found the idea extremely comforting – like the place might finally start to feel like home.

It had been a morning practice, so it was barely noon by the time the Swoodilypoopers were filing into the locker room, sweaty and worn out, but satisfied with their growing strength as a team.

As it was too early for even Cteve to justify a trip to the pub, the team was going their separate ways. It didn't bother John on this occasion that there would be no post-practice social in the pub. They had a match the following morning, and Bald John was planning to begin moving his stuff into the house that afternoon, so there was more than enough to keep him focused and busy for the rest of the day.

Before John had even managed to get changed, however, Patrick, their Assistant Coach, came up to John and clasped him hard on the shoulder.

"OJ!" he said brightly, "some people here need a minute of your time."

John opened his mouth to ask what the hell Patrick was on about when a familiar face caught his eye. Hannah McMillan was standing in the corner of the dressing room, shamelessly checking out the half-naked members of the Swoodilypoopers as they moved to and from the showers. She had a heavy, expensive-looking camera on a strap around her neck and a black canvas bag slung across her shoulder. Beside her stood a man who John could only assume was Peter Jameson, the sports correspondent for the Swindon Town Gazette.

Hannah was clearly true to her word when she said they had been planning to interview him the following day. She grinned when she caught his eye and called across the dressing room.

"Alright, handsome?"

"Can't complain." John shrugged. "Only I thought I was done for the day but now some nosy member of the press wants to take up more of my time. Typical," he teased.

"Just go get yourself cleaned up, Other John." She punctuated his nickname. "Just once I'd like to have a conversation with you when you aren't smelling of damp socks."

Other members of the team had begun to notice their verbal sparring and John distinctly heard Leeroy call out "buuuuuurn!" in his heavy American accent.

"Oh come off it," John grinned. "You know you like your men hot and sweaty."

Fitz Hall wolf-whistled.

"Well," Hannah let out a cheeky laugh, "I can't argue with that. Now get gone to the showers, sports star, we don't have all day." 

Obediently, John stripped down to a towel – albeit a little more carefully than he might have if Bald John and Hannah were not both in the room with him. As he began to walk to the showers, Bald John, also dressed in nothing but a short towel, fell into step with him.

_Oh God._

_Don't look at him, don't look at him, don't look at him. Do. not. look. at. him._

Nearly-naked Bald John was a mere inch from skin contact. If John manoeuvred himself just an inch to the left, he could lightly brush Bald John's torso with his arm –

_Dammit John! Keep it together._

John couldn't think straight. He was sure his attraction must be coming off him in waves. Everyone within a mile radius must be able to tell what he's thinking. He was sure of it. It took every ounce of concentration to look only at the floor in front of him as they walked the suddenly very long distance to the showers. Is Bald John saying something? He hadn't been listening.

"Sorry…. what?" John asked with some effort, wrenching his eyes from the floor to meet Bald John's. Just his eyes, eyes are okay. Don't look down.

"I take it you've met Hannah?" Bald John repeated.

John chuckled. "Yeah, we ran into each other while I was jogging yesterday."

Bald John nodded. John noticed the familiar blush around Bald John's ears had returned, though he wasn't sure what had prompted it.

As they neared the showers, John briefly allowed himself a glance up and down Bald John's body – Holy Hell. Forcing himself to tear his eyes away, John quickly hurried into the shower. Turning the knob on the shower to several degrees cooler than he might have ordinarily, John cleaned up, composed himself, and hurried out to meet Hannah and Peter.

His hair was still slightly wet and sticking up on end when he entered the small conference room in the Swoodilypoopers stadium. As soon as he entered, he noticed that Hannah had been busy while he was off making himself presentable. The usual conference table and dozen chairs that usually occupied the room had been unceremoniously stacked in a corner, and a red couch that John recognized from the stadium bar had been dragged into the centre of the room opposite a plastic white chair.

Peter was already sitting in the white chair. With his right ankle resting on his left knee, he was using his right leg as a make-shift table and was scribbling notes with such concentration that he barely glanced up when John entered.

Hannah, meanwhile, was unpacking her black canvas bag to reveal several high quality lamps, a couple of which had already been set up to illuminate the red couch. John felt suddenly unprepared for his interview. His palms began to sweat slightly and his mouth went dry. It wasn't that he had any trouble chatting with people or answering questions about himself – in fact, he quite enjoyed it – but he felt guilty for not having taken this interview much more seriously, as it would be his very first solo interview in any printed press.

With one glance at him, Hannah seemed to surmise his concern and smiled at him. 

"Don't worry John, this stuff isn't nearly as professional as it seems. It's just that the lighting in this room is terrible, but I'm mostly just going to take candids while you chat with Peter, and then we might do a short photo shoot at the end. Will that be okay?"

For all her teasing earlier that afternoon, Hannah was now the picture of a professional. And - John did not fail to note - he had been right about her ability to clean up well. In a fitted navy button-down shirt and matching blazer, with skinny jeans the colour of honey, and her hair falling in loose curls around her shoulders, she looked at once casual and extremely well put-together. John couldn't help but admire this more composed side of his new friend. And so, with an encouraging smile from Hannah and cup of coffee, John sat down for his very first interview.

Peter Jameson was a well-built, attractive man in his early-thirties. He hair was clean and tightly cropped, but the shadow of facial hair around his features suggested a slightly scruffy attitude. John suspected – though he did not voice his thoughts – that Peter had attempted a life of professional football in his earlier years but either injury or insufficient talent had prevented him from pursuing it long-term. Even so, Peter was an engaged and friendly interviewer who seemed to have a legitimate interest in what John had to say. 

"Where are you from?" he began. 

"Central Liverpool." John answered. "As a place to grow up, it was pretty incredible. Probably most of all because of it's huge impact on my love of football. The city was always united under their mutual love and support for our home team. I think fellow football supporters were the first really community I'd ever known."

Peter nodded and continued to jot down notes in a shorthand that John could not decipher.

"How are you liking the Swoodiplypoopers so far?"

"I feel very lucky to have joined such a talented and dedicated team. I really believe that we're unique in the country – no team can match us for heart."

And so the questions continued in this way. The piece was just a short profile for a sidebar in the sports section, but John enjoyed chatting with Peter. What other teams do you support? ("Well, I must admit that my Liverpudlian blood runs deep…") Do you follow any other sports? ("I have a passing interest in rugby, but I really only have time to dedicate myself to my first love, which is football…. Obviously.") Do you think the Swoodiplypoopers can get promoted by the end of the season? ("That's the goal. I know as a team it's the only thing we've got in our sights. I suppose from the bottom the only place to go is up, right?")

Eventually, Peter sat back with a satisfied smile.

"Well, I think that's all from me. Thanks, John, it was really nice to meet you." 

"Likewise," John responded as he rose to shake hands with Peter. "How was it, okay?" John couldn't resist asking.

"Great!" Peter reassured him, "Really great. I think Swindon's really going to warm to you."

John breathed a sigh of relief that he didn't even realize he'd been holding.

Hannah, who he had noticed quietly taking photos of him and Peter throughout the interview, held up the camera and snapped another when he looked over at her. She admired it on the display screen for a moment before looking back up at him. Still with her air of professionalism, she held out a hand to him.

"Do you mind if we take a couple more? I'd like a few of you standing."

"Sure thing." John allowed Hannah to physically manoeuvre him into position, and posed for a few more pictures. 

"You're really a natural at this you know," She commented mildly as she photographed him.

"Thanks," John said, "but I don't really know what I'm doing."

"But that's a part of your charm. You were completely honest and relaxed, it was great. You could find a home with this team if you wanted one."

Hannah's tone remained calm and mild, but he felt himself fill with warmth at her words. Until she said it, he hadn't even realized how much that meant to him. More than anything else he wanted to find a home in this town and with this team. From his first ten minutes with the team he had felt that this was the start of something truly special for him, and to have it confirmed by an outside source meant more to him than he could put into words. He swelled with enormous pride and excitement at Hannah's words.

"Thank you." He tried to imbue the words with as much genuine emotion as he could. He really was grateful, and he could only hope that Hannah understood how much. 

A few minutes later, satisfied that she'd gotten her shot, John helped Hannah and Peter pack up the lights, and return the conference room to its original state. Slinging the black bag over his shoulder before Hannah had a chance to protest, he carried her equipment out to her car for her.

He placed them in the backseat of her car for her, and turned to shake Peter's hand farewell.

"I look forward to reading the piece," he told him. 

"I look forward to writing it," Peter replied, before going around to the other side of the car and getting into the driver's seat.

Hannah looked like she might shake his hand, but he pulled her into a warm hug instead, which she returned with the same enthusiasm with which she approached everything else. Releasing her, John took a step back and let her clamber into the car and drive away.

Still smiling John turning around and was surprised to see Bald John several feet away, leaning against the exit to the parking lot. As John watched, Bald John pushed himself away from the railing he had been leaning on and began to walk back down the path away from the stadium.

"Hey!" John called out to him, running to catch up. Bald John didn't stop walking, so John sped up until eventually he drew level with his new housemate.

"Hey." Bald John said, as though he had only just noticed John was there.

"What are you still doing here?" John asked, falling into step alongside Bald John. "I mean, I thought you would have left ages ago." John had been with Hannah and Peter for nearly two hours, and he couldn't think what would have delayed Bald John from heading home. He refused to consider the alternative.

Bald John didn't answer John's question right away, though it was plain to see that he was agitated about something. 

"I, uh, I'm meeting someone. A friend. For coffee, just nearby," Bald John indicated vaguely into a field of sheep on the side of the road.

John could think of nothing to say to this. So instead they walked in silence side by side all the way into the centre of town. John did not bother pointing out that Bald John was clearly going in the wrong direction if he was meeting someone for coffee near the Stadium.

When they arrived outside of John's house, he opened his mouth to invite Bald John in for some tea – which John was hoping would become something of a ritual for them – but he was cut off before he could get a word out.

"I should go back home," Bald John said. "Need to pack and everything…" Bald John trailed off.

"Sure," John agreed. "Well, you're welcome to come around for tea at any time if you'd like some."

Just before they diverged from one another, John could have sworn he heard Bald John say one more thing, just loud enough to be heard over a sudden gust of wind through the trees: "You and Hannah are really cute together. I can see why you would like her." And no sooner had he said it, he was gone. 

Bald John's words hit John like a punch to the gut. John's teasing with Hannah… it hadn't occurred to him how it would appear to anyone else, most importantly to Bald John. Did Bald John think that he and Hannah were together? Did Hannah think they were flirting? He felt the heavy weight of guilt sink into the pit of his stomach. He hadn't given his behaviour with Hannah any thought; it was just the same as he had behaved with his female friends back home. But back then all of his friends had known he was gay. This… this was very different.

John punched the brick wall on the outside of his house in frustration, completely unsure how he could even begin to go about fixing this.

* * *

John spent the rest of that day frantically cleaning his house in anticipation of Bald John's imminent arrival. He removed the last of his books from their boxes on the floor of the living room, filling the bookcases with books ranging from a second edition of _The Origin of Species_ to a number of sports almanacs he used to collect when he was kid. He hoovered the carpets, dusted the counters, arranged the pillows on his couch, and ever so gradually the place began to look presentable. John even remembered to pop out to the corner shop for a nice bottle of red wine so that he might have something better to offer than PG Tips for their housewarming toast. By half-six John felt the place was finally ready for his new flatmate.

He collapsed onto his newly tidied sofa and listened to the soft drones of _The Sunset Tree_ drifting from his iPod speakers in the kitchen. John quickly found that having nothing left to do was not as relaxing as he might have hoped. As his mind was finally allowed a chance to slow down, his worries from the events of that afternoon were given the chance to re-surface.

No matter how many times John went over it in his head, he was left with one conclusion that echoed uncomfortably in his mind. Bald John waited for him outside the stadium for two hours, only to leave when he saw him hug Hannah. There were a limited number of reasons why anyone would behave this way, and Occam's Razor would certainly tell him that Bald John's behaviour indicated profound interest in the first instance, and jealousy in the second. This very real possibility made John petrified and thrilled in equal measure.

His feelings for Bald John were so strong that any signals of affection on the part of his co-striker would always be welcome. But despite this, he was filled with dread by the sheer idea that there might be something real and tangible in this relationship of theirs. It would certainly have made his life a great deal simpler if Bald John had shown nothing more than a polite interest in him, which fell well within the bounds of what could be called a professional friendship. But increasingly John could not help but suspect his feelings were not as one sided as he might have originally assumed. And again – as with the decision to invite Bald John to move in with him – his emotions won out in the battle against his logic. So, despite his serious trepidations, John Bennett could ultimately be nothing but thrilled by Bald John's behaviour. 

It was in this moment of elation that John's doorbell rang out through the living room. Jumping gracefully over the back of the couch, John strode to open the door. Standing there, laden with three different shoulder bags and carrying a box under each arm – but still as breathtaking as ever he had been – was Bald John.

Grinning, John stepped back to allow him into the house.

"I wish you'd called to tell me you were ready, I would have come help you carry stuff."

"Don't worry about it," Bald John dismissed, "This isn't really that much stuff, just enough to settle in, but I'll make a few more trips later this week," Bald John grinned impishly at John, "I'll be sure to save the heavy stuff for when you come to help me."

John smiled back dryly. "Thanks for that. You know what, forget I offered."

Bald John laughed as he carried his bags and boxes in the living room. John followed behind, admiring the way Bald John’s plaid button-down shirt fit around his lower back. Bald John set most of his belongings neatly down next to the couch, and then excused himself to carry two of the remaining shoulder bags up to his new bedroom.

While Bald John was upstairs, John took the opportunity to retrieve the bottle of wine he'd bought and carry two glasses into the living room. He was mid-way through uncorking the wine when he heard Bald John coming down the stairs.

"Hey," he said, holding up the bottle of wine. "Fancy a housewarming drink? I managed to buy something stronger than tea this time."

Bald John looked slightly uncomfortable. "That sounds really nice, but I actually don't drink red wine."

"Oh." 

John was sure he looked crestfallen, but mostly he was just embarrassed. He remembered with a pang that he really didn’t know Bald John at all. Dimly, from the most insecure part of his mind, he wondered if he had made a terrible mistake in inviting this relative stranger to live with him. This same part of him also worried that Bald John was standing opposite him thinking the exact same thing.

"I'm very sorry," Bald John supplied. "Red wine just gives me a headache. Do you have anything else?"

John kicked himself for not buying some beer when he had the chance. And a quick glance at his phone on the coffee table told him the shops were closed.

"Umm… tea?" They both laughed awkwardly, which managed to at least alleviate some of John's irrational worries.

"I'd love a cup of tea."

The atmosphere over their second evening of tea was noticeably different to their first. This time, they each made sure to ask certain pointed questions about the others' habits – the kind of things that are useful to know when it comes to living with someone. 

"What time do you like to get up?" Bald John asked him.

"As late as humanly possible," was John's immediate response.

"That's great!" Bald John smiled, "means I won't have any competition for the shower in the morning."

"Oh God, don't tell me you're an early riser! I think I'd like to call this whole thing off – I don't know how I could possibly live with an early riser."

"You'll be thanking me for it soon enough," Bald John promised. "I make sensational breakfasts."

They chatted about food and music preference, communal groceries, even the council tax, and with every passing moment John's fears were washed away. All but one.

He noticed that there was one topic in particular that was not broached. He supposed they were both adults, and if they wanted to bring people around, they had every right to. So in that sense there was not a lot to say on the matter. But at the same time, John felt like it was some kind of elephant in the room that neither of them wished to acknowledge. And John was again painfully reminded of their encounter earlier that day with Hannah.

But the conversation passed without it ever being mentioned, and eventually Bald John yawned loudly at the table and they were both forced to admit that not all their conversations could last through the night.

John followed Bald John out of the kitchen, and climbed the stairs one pace behind him – trying his level best to avoid the absolutely sensational view of Bald John's ass. At the top of the stairs Bald John gave him a brief smile and then began to move towards his room.

"John?" John was calling to him before he knew why.

"Bennett?" Bald John replied with another one of his cheeky smiles.

"I just wanted to say…" still unsure what had come over him, John pushed on, "you know what you said earlier, about Hannah?" 

Bald John's smile fell, and he looked taken aback by the abrupt mention of the subject, but he nodded regardless.

"Right, well… I just wanted to say… there's nothing going on between us. I mean, we're mates and we get on and everything, but that's it. We're not… I mean, she's just not my type. I just thought…. I mean, you seemed to think… anyway, just thought I'd let you know."

The moment was so fleeting that by tomorrow morning John would think he had imaged it, but the ghost of a smile flashed across Bald John's face before it returned to being imperceptible.

"Okay." He eventually replied. "Thanks." 

"Goodnight John."

"Goodnight John." 

* * *

It didn't take long for the Johns to fall into a comfortable and easy routine with one another. Similar to how they navigated each other on the pitch, or when they had made their first cup of tea together, they found a unique natural rhythm with one another, and John had never experienced anything like it in his life.

Their relationship was so effortless, that John often had to remind himself that they weren't, in fact, in a relationship. All the ingredients were there, but since the brief Hannah strangeness, Bald John had given no further indication that he had any feelings for John beyond the normal bounds of housemate, friend, or co-worker. So John worked tirelessly to suppress any feelings that fell outside those boundaries. This proved to be surprisingly challenging. He would occasionally catch himself about to stroke Bald John's arm when they were walking past each other, or wrap his arms around him from behind when they were cooking. In one half-mad moment, John had very nearly leaned across and kissed his cheek when they were sitting on the couch together one evening. He could see that version of his life – him and Bald John sharing their lives in every way – with such clarity. And he knew, without any doubt, that it would be the only relationship worth having.

But John reminded himself as often as possible that whatever feelings Bald John may or may not have been feeling toward him, the man had just ended a marriage. With a woman. And this in and of itself posed more than enough issues to prevent them from falling into some kind of honeymoon bliss. Besides which, there were only a handful of people in his life who knew he was gay – his sister, his parents, and he supposed, one or two men with whom he had shared brief, relatively anonymous encounters – and he wasn't in a hurry to add Bald John to that list. Much as he was sure Bald John was a non-judgmental type of guy, he didn't want to risk complicating such a fantastic living situation.

Despite this issue, John was easily the happiest he could remember being in a very long time. His new-found housemate, friends, and team all served to give him a sense of purpose and achievement that had been sorely lacking in his adult life. The Johns walked together to practice, or the team went to the pub after a match (they remained gloriously undefeated), or John would meet with Hannah for coffee whenever their various schedules permitted. And so the weeks passed with ease.

"John if you do not get your sorry arse in gear, we will miss the sodding bus!" 

Bald John's curses flew up from the front door and echoed around the small house. John laughed despite Bald John's tone – the sound of such British curses coming from such an American accent was too funny to take seriously. In addition, Bald John swore so rarely that John couldn't help but enjoy it when he did.

"We're not going to miss the bus," he called down from his bedroom, drops of toothpaste flying from his mouth as he spoke. John resumed brushing his teeth as he marched around his small room attempting to locate all of his kit and shove it into his duffel bag.

"The bus leaves," Bald John paused to check his watch, "two minutes ago. And we're a ten minute walk away."

"Well I guess we won't be walking then!" John laughed again. "Besides," he continued, still yelling from the other side of the house, "you don't really think they'd leave without us, do you? I mean, not being funny, we're kind of the team's only offensive strategy."

"Arrogance doesn't suit you," Bald John scolded across the house. "Now shut up and get ready so we can get out of here!"

"Go ahead without me if you're so concerned about it."

John really wouldn't have minded if Bald John left without him, but he knew he wouldn't. For all his yelling, Bald John had never once left without him – and this had become something of a pattern of theirs in the two months since they started living together. Bald John, it turned out, was obsessed with punctuality. To the point that if he had his way, they would constantly be arriving ten minutes early. For everything. Even so, John did sometimes feel bad that he was incapable of leaving for anything on time, so having at last located his left shoe, he zipped up his duffel, spat out his toothpaste, grabbed his jacket from the hook on the back of his door, and started careening down the stairs as he threw his duffel over his shoulder.

Bald John was leaning against the front door. When he saw John was finally ready, he opened the door and held it, as John had already started running by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs. He continued running right through the door that Bald John was holding open for him. Bald John followed him out and locked the door behind him.

"Alright, if you're so concerned about being late, shall we aim for a new record?"

Bald John hitched his own black duffel bag higher up his shoulder and grinned despite his irritation. Without responding he took off at a sprint down the road towards the stadium.

On the days when they were running particularly late, they had taken to racing to the stadium in a ridiculous quest to figure out how quickly they could get to the stadium. On a particularly fast day the previous week they'd managed to get it down to three minutes and roughly twenty seconds. But the stadium was on the top of a hill, and they were both carrying duffel bags that weighed them down considerably. Before they even started running John knew they had no chance of breaking their record. Even so, he took off after Bald John.

Five minutes and seven seconds later, they arrived, slightly out of breath, in the stadium parking lot. The bus had clearly been waiting for them. John could make out the silhouettes of the other players behind the tinted glass of the team bus as they continued to sprint towards it. Their Assistant Coach was the only one not already on board. He leaned against the side of the bus idly, and watched as the two strikers skidded to a halt in front of him.

"Johns," Patrick said curtly. "You're late. Again. Every time we have an away game, we seem to spend ten minutes waiting for you sorry fools to turn up."

"Sorry Coach," Bald John hung his head, the familiar red creeping along the edges of his ears.

John felt a cold stab of guilt for being so terrible at keeping track of time. He knew how much Bald John hated getting reprimanded, especially if he felt – though somewhat irrationally – that he had let down this team that he loved so much. John's guilt didn't have to last long, however.

"Don't give me any of that," Patrick replied to Bald John, not unkindly. "You were the first one here every single day until you started living with our friend Other John, here. I should probably be thanking you – without you we might be forced to wait twenty minutes for him to show up."

Now it was John's turn to blush.

"Sorry, coach."

Patrick dismissed his apology with a wave of his hand. 

"There are worse vices in the world than an inability to manage your time. Maybe we'll just have to start scheduling things ten minutes early, eh?" He cocked them a half-smile. "Now get on the bus, both of you, or I might ask Ed to leave without you just to teach you a lesson."

He slapped them both lightly around the back of the head as they mounted the bus. Ed, their driver, nodded to them as they entered the bus and upon seeing them, the rest of the team cheered in mock celebration at the Johns' arrival. At long last, once the Johns had taken their seats next to each other, Ed kicked the engine of their bus into gear. 

"Next time," Bald John said to him as the bus took off towards their away match in Hull, "it's my turn to decide what time we leave."

* * *

Their match against Hull City was an exhausting, infuriating disaster.

It started well: by 15 minutes in, they were two-nil up after a goal each from Bald and Other John in the 5th and 12th minutes. John had come to crave these moments like a drug. Perhaps even more that the feeling of scoring, he had come to crave the feeling of Bald John in his arms, as their hugs had become something of a tradition after particularly good tandem efforts. Those brief moments after such a goal – a mix of adrenaline, testosterone and desire – were the highlight of any match for John. And they always left him elated, though vaguely unsatisfied, because the moment would never be long enough.

On this particular day, however, the feeling of elation died particularly quickly.

After the 15th minute, the game was theirs to lose. And lose it they did.

In the 34th minute, during an offensive play, John attempted to cross the ball through the box to where Bald John was waiting, perfectly positioned to score. But the ball never arrived at his feet. Intercepted midway through by a defenseman from Hull City, he wasted no time. Not only did he clear the ball, but he sent it directly to the feet of their best striker, who was open near the fringe of play. 

Hull's striker knew a golden opportunity when he saw one and tore up the nearly empty defensive side of the Swoodilypoopers, barrelling an admittedly beautiful ball past Fat Lucas.

The tide turned from that moment, and the Swoodilypoopers never regained their momentum.

By the 61st minute Hull had drawn level, and in the 76th, with a precise header off a corner kick, the ball sailed into the Swoodilypooper's net, just an inch below the crossbar. Fat Lucas never even had a chance to stop that one.

It was at this point that the match really became frustrating. In desperation and aggravation, many of the defensive team members began to make increasingly reckless or aggressive tackles. These ultimately served no purpose other than to give Hull a total of five free kicks in as many minutes, and earn Ginger a yellow card.

The final straw came in the 89th minute when Cteve handed the game to Hull City on a sliver platter after a particularly vicious foul inside the box. The Swoodilypoopers gained another yellow card and Hull gained their fourth goal of the match off the resulting penalty kick.

And so, when the final whistle blew three minutes past the 90-minute mark, John experienced, for the first time, the bitter taste of humiliating defeat with his new team.

The visiting locker rooms in Hull City's stadium were tense and deeply uncomfortable as they filed dejectedly inside from the pitch.

The suffocating silence of defeat was interrupted by the sudden sound of Ginger Rampage slamming his fist into one of the lockers.

The noise echoed around the room but still no one spoke. Really, defeat was not a new experience for many of the more seasoned members of the Swoodilypoopers. Before Manager John took over and Bald and Other John joined, defeat had been the default setting for the team. Even so, there was something particularly devastating about this loss. Maybe it was because they had given up such a good lead. Maybe it was the never-pleasant sensation of playing an away game. But John thought most likely it was that whatever spell had been cast over the team after his and Bald John's arrival was now irreparably broken. They had lost. And not even the Johns had been able to prevent it.

John felt dejected and embarrassed, and more than anything else he wanted to be alone with his failure. He wasn't sure whether or not he was imaging it, but he felt as though the eyes of every player were on him. Blaming him. Why did you let us lose? And even in this imagined dialogue with his teammates John found himself growing annoyed and defensive. So maybe he had made a bad pass. Maybe this had turned the tied of the game. But why hadn't Fat Lucas made any of the four saves that he should have? Why hadn't Voluptuous defended against the breakaway? Why had Cteve made such an idiotic tackle?

Rationally he knew that they won and lost as a team, but this didn't prevent him from mentally laying blame to every other member of the team, as he felt sure they were laying the blame on him. Nor did it prevent the shame from seeping into his very pores.

The team stripped, showered and changed in relative silence. Everyone was on edge, and it seemed that everyone had their own way of coping with a loss. Leeroy kept periodically flexing his hands into fists and then relaxing them again, as though trying to decide whether starting a fight with someone would actually make him feel better. Voluptuous simply avoided eye contact with everyone.

Within minutes Cteve was packed up and seemed itching to leave as he stood by the exit.

"Alright, can we get the fuck out of here or what?" he yelled across the silent room. Cteve was always a little on the abrasive side, but John found him to be particularly unpleasant after a loss.

Cteve took to leaning impatiently against the wall by the door and glaring indiscriminately at everyone as he waited for the rest of the team to finish packing their gear in their duffels. John watched as Bald John dropped the clothes he was packing in his duffel and strode over to Cteve. He gently put and hand on his shoulder, and spoke softly to him. It was much too quiet for John to make out what he said, but he continued to watch as Cteve nodded and visibly relaxed a little. A moment later Cteve turned and stepped outside, with Bald John following behind. John continued to watch the door for a while, but neither of them came back inside 

When John and the rest of the team finally had all their stuff together, they began to leave the dressing rooms without another word. Remembering suddenly that Bald John hadn't returned after leaving with Cteve, John made sure to pack up his duffel along with his own and take it with him when he left.

It was only once they had emerged outside that John noticed Cteve and Bald John standing together near the stadium exit. Cteve was smoking aggressively on a cigarette – a quick glance at the pavement told John it was at least his third – while Bald John stood by patiently, listening to Cteve let off steam. He still seemed angry, but he had clearly calmed down considerably since going outside. John approached the pair of them cautiously and slipped Bald John's duffel from his shoulder, passing it to him without a word.

Bald John smiled at him, but it didn't quite reach his eyes the way that John liked. He clearly was affected by the loss in his own way, but rather reacting with violence or cursing or accusations, it seemed he liked to internalize his frustration. And really, John wouldn't have expected anything else. Bald John was not the blame-placing type. John felt his shame deepen. At every turn it felt like Bald John was inadvertently reminding him that he was a much better person than him.

Bald John continued to look at John long after what would have been considered a polite amount of eye contact. John felt himself getting warm behind the collar from the intensity of his gaze. It seemed to John like he was trying to convey something, and John cursed himself again that he did not yet know Bald John well enough to be able to decipher his cryptic messages. He made a silent vow to himself that he would one day know Bald John well enough that they could have entire conversations without every opening their mouths. One day. But not yet.

Eventually, once Cteve had finished his cigarette, the three of them mounted the bus. John took a seat by the window, and Bald John settled down next to him.

The bus was quiet as everyone took their seat, and without any more hesitation than was necessary, Ed had revved up the engine and they'd begun the long ride home.

"You okay?" Bald John asked, after several minutes of silence passed between them.

John shrugged.

"I guess. I mean it's not like I've never lost a match before. And it's not like we won't lose more than our fair share in future. It's just…"

"This one felt different." Bald John supplied for him.

"Yeah."

"We've never lost a match before." And John knew, without knowing exactly how, that when Bald John said we, he didn't mean the team, he meant we. He meant 'you and me.'

John didn't say anything, because he wasn't sure if there was anything he could say in response to that. Instead he let his gaze wander out of the window, and they lapsed back into silence.

"It doesn't change anything, though. You know that, right?" Bald John asked after another minute passed.

"What do you mean?" John looked over at him, and felt the familiar warmth spread through him again when he found that Bald John had been watching him intently.

"With us. It doesn't change anything, just because we lost a match. We're bound to lose matches sometimes, but it doesn't mean we're not… great together."

John's breath caught. In just a few minutes Bald John had managed to cut right to the quick of what had been bothering John about this loss. And again he was struck by how completely unfair it was that Bald John seemed much more able to read him than he was able to read Bald John. 

"I know," John replied quietly. He knew Bald John was right, but it didn't prevent him from feeling like some kind of the magic they had been running on was lost. He wished he could express that to Bald John, but he was certain it would sound ridiculous – and possibly a little presumptuous.

"I know," John repeated, unable to find the words. "I guess I'm just tired."

"Yeah," Bald John sighed in response. "So am I." He leaned back so his head was supported on the headrest of his seat. A moment later he closed his eyes.

John continued to study Bald John's face. In some vague way he hoped that if he could memorize every line, every curve, then his features might finally begin to reveal their secrets. He was gazing so intensely that John wouldn't be surprised if Bald John could feel his eyes upon him. 

"We'll be home soon," John promised him quietly, still watching his face.

"Mmm…" Came Bald John's response. 

"I'll make some tea, shall I? And we can curl up in the living room with some books."

A smile stretched across Bald John's face, though his eyes remained closed.

"And a blanket," Bald John added, though he sounded half-asleep. "I've been freezing all day."

"And a blanket." John agreed, as he too leaned back and let his heavily lids close.

When John awoke the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon, and the sky had turned to an ashen gray in the wake of the sunset. But still the bus was rolling beneath him, and he guessed that he couldn't have been asleep for more than an hour.

He felt remarkably peaceful, and it was only when John looked around that he realized why. And for a split-second he was convinced he was still asleep.

Bald John's glorious bald head was resting comfortably inside the crook of John's shoulder, his chest rising and falling as he slept. John heart stopped in his chest as he looked down at the man next to him, looking surprisingly vulnerable in sleep.

John was terrified to move for fear it would wake Bald John and shatter the delicate moment. And yet he was absolutely desperate to touch him. He had never felt the urge so forcefully in his life. He wanted to stroke Bald John's exposed cheek, and run his finger's down the sensitive back of his neck, or kiss the top of his forehead, which was so well-placed for it and begging to be kissed. Instead, he contented himself for inching his left hand, which lay idle between their two bodies, closer and closer to Bald John's similarly idle right hand. Having reached Bald John's fingers, he allowed his knuckles to graze the back of Bald John's right hand. It was just enough to satisfy John's sudden urge, but he hoped subtle enough that he might be able to pass it off as some kind of accident if Bald John were to wake up.

The more he considered this, however, the quicker John came to the realization that there is no kind of accident that would explain why he was stroking Bald John's hand. As his senses of self-preservation finally kicked back in, John became suddenly terrified that Bald John would awake to find himself being cuddled without solicitation. John quickly began to remove his hand. But he was brought up short when Bald John's fingers reacted against his own. Reaching back, Bald John's fingers interlaced with John's and pulled them closer. Quite without intending to, John suddenly found himself holding Bald John's hand.

Every cell in John's body was on fire. He was sure his palms must be sweating, and he could feel heat rushing to his cheeks. How did this happen?

Gingerly, he glanced down at Bald John's face. For all the world it looked like he was still asleep. But then, as John watched, Bald John began to stir, first tensing his muscles and then stretching, like a cat waking from a slumber. He smiled serenely to himself as he blinked a couple of times, trying to orient himself back in the world.

"Hey," John said quietly, look down at his face.

"Hey," Bald John replied, his voice still thick with the grogginess of hour-long naps.

It took another whole heartbeat for Bald John to take in his situation. And then, as if on cue, the skin around his ears turned a vivid red. He straightened up let out an awkward chuckle.

"Sorry," he muttered, avoiding John's eyes. 

And only then did he notice their interlocked fingers. John would not have thought it possible, but Bald John blushed even deeper, and his eyes locked onto the floor of the bus.

"Oh God." John wasn't sure whether Bald John had intended him to hear or not. He released John's hand quickly.

But John was absolutely sure that he had felt Bald John's grip tighten just for a moment before he relinquished John's hand.

The rest of the journey passed with barely another word spoken between them, but despite everything – the loss, the awkward aftermath – John would remember that away trip fondly.

That was the day that he finally allowed himself to hope.

* * *

 

 


	2. Families (and their baggage)

* * *

In the weeks following their humiliating loss to Hull City, John and the rest of the Swoodilypoopers found themselves training harder and more rigorously than they ever had before. As the leaves fell from the trees and the days grew shorter, endless hours passed on the freezing cold grounds of the Swindon stadium.

"John, keep your bloody knees up!" Patrick yelled to him from across the pitch. Wrapped in a thick puffy coat with a Swindon Town crest embroidered on the front, their assistant coach looked like a tiny Irish version of the Michelin Man. With Coach John back in America for the winter, Patrick had taken over the day-to-day management of the team. The little sadist seemed to enjoy nothing more than watching them run drills.

Around the cones. Dibble. Pass. Dribble. Pass. Shoot. And back to the beginning. Over and over again they ran – to the point that John had completely lost track of how many balls he’d shot past Fat Lucas, who was looking about ready to keel over in goal. The biting December frosts were relentless; they nipped at his cheeks and froze his joints. His feet had long since fallen numb, and his lips were badly cracked from the cold.

John tried to surreptitiously catch Bald John's eye as he pelted yet another ball past Fat Lucas' slow fingers. A quick glance told him that Bald John did not cope well in the cold. His wonderful baldness, usually so appealing, was proving to be a serious disadvantage in the winter months. His eyes looked oddly glazed over and he carried a look of such obvious discomfort that it might almost have been comical were it not for the shivers that raked through his body. John's heart went out to him – he did not like the pallor of Bald John's skin or the way his teeth were chattering. He had a sudden urge to wrap himself around the man like a human blanket. Instantly, his mind travelled with ease to other ways they might be able to keep each other warm. As though sensing his gaze and all of its intentions, Bald John looked up and met his eyes. Despite their miserable situation, Bald John grinned at him, the cold making his whole face a vivid red. And John would be damned if it wasn't the most attractive thing he'd ever seen.

 _Damnit!_ Really, this was getting ridiculous. In the past weeks they had not once discussed what did or didn't happen between them on the bus, but John had been progressively slipping in his attempts to conceal his attraction to his housemate. He allowed his gaze to linger longer than it should, he allowed himself to flirt to Bald John as often as the opportunity arose, and he even allowed himself little touches – something he had spent most of his adult life avoiding around his teammates. An arm around his shoulder after practice, or a gentle touch when passing each other around the house. These moments were so easy and wonderful and gave John such pleasure that he could no longer remember why he had been denying himself for so long.

"Bennett? You still with us?"

The sound of his own surname in that soft American accent always sent a thrill of pleasure through John. He looked over to see Bald John standing near him with a lazy half-smile, rubbing his hands together to keep warm. Casting his gaze about, John noticed with a jolt that most of the team were already half-way off the pitch, heading towards the locker room. John had been so wrapped up in thoughts of his non-existent – yet surprisingly complicated – love life that he hadn't even noticed Patrick’s closing whistle. In a sharp thrill of pleasure, John couldn't help but notice that despite the discomfort he was clearly enduring, Bald John had still chosen to wait for him.

Acting on a childish instinct, John reached out and gently prodded Bald John in the chest, right in the centre of the Swindon Town crest on his jersey. "You're it," he said simply.

Before Bald John had any time to process his meaning, John began to sprint off towards the entrance of the locker rooms. It took another beat for Bald John to remember the rules of tag before he was racing after John at full speed, barrelling towards him.

John was agile and light on his feet, but he couldn't hope to match Bald John in sheer strength and speed. Bald John caught up with him before he could go more than a few feet, but just as his fingers reached out for John's shoulder, John began to dance and dart away from Bald John's touch, laughing like a schoolboy. John couldn’t have said where this sudden burst of playfulness had stemmed from, but he thought – just once – he would indulge the urge. Later on, he would blame the cold and a lack of blood flow to his brain.

Bald John continued to chase him in vain for several minutes before fatigue finally got the best of John. He tripped over his own feet in an attempt to escape Bald John's grasp and fell with a short yelp on to the frost-bitten turf. In seconds, Bald John was on top of him, his legs straddling John around his hips, and his hands pressing John's arms to the ground.

Bald John leaned down so their eyes were level.

"I win."

Any air that might have been left in John's lungs rushed out of him. Desperately, he tried to remember how to speak. But it was useless - his thoughts had turned to an incoherent jumble and all he could feel was the heat of Bald John's legs around his hips and the crackling electricity beneath his skin at every point where their skin touched. Dimly, John wondered if Bald John could feel it too. He tried not to look at Bald John's lips – pale from the cold and just a few inches above him. They were begging to be kissed and it took every ounce of effort John had to not lift himself up and claim them right there in the middle of the frozen pitch.

They were only in that position for a matter of seconds before Bald John was hopping back onto his feet. John struggled up too, trying to process this turn of events. What the hell was that? Together, they walked the rest of the way back to the locker room. John's back was wet from the frosty ground he had been lying on, but the cold could no longer dampen his spirits. Hope and pleasure blossomed in his chest. For the first time, he was absolutely sure that Bald John reciprocated his feelings.

Upon emerging into the warmth of the locker rooms, the rest of the team looked over at them with curious expressions.

"What on earth happened to the two of you?" Cuthbert, already fully dressed in an expensive pair of Armani trousers and a thick woollen jumper, eyed their slightly dishevelled appearance. "Did you get lost somewhere between the pitch and the locker rooms?"

"Something like that." Bald John said, though he offered nothing more in way of explanation.

 _Really,_ John thought, _what could we possibly say?_

The team didn't wait for them before heading to the pub and one by one they all departed until the Johns were again left alone together. They quietly went about showering and making themselves presentable, but there was something different – awkward – in the air between them now.

“I don’t think my hands will ever be warm again,” John said, cutting through the silence. He rubbed his hands together absently. “They’re still freezing, feel.” Reaching out, he brushed the back of his hand against Bald John’s bare forearm.

Immediately, as though hit with an electric current, Bald John flinched away from his touch. For a moment John thought it might have just been a reaction to the cold, but the look in Bald John’s face said otherwise. He frowned and turned away, curling in on himself to avoid any further contact. Rejection hit John like a punch to the stomach.

For the rest of the time it took them to get changed, Bald John remained evasive and silent. He refused to meet John's eyes, and the metallic sounds of the lockers echoed uncomfortably throughout the too-large room. The sharp change in Bald John's mannerisms was unwelcome and perplexing. As quickly as it had come, John’s hope evaporated. He desperately wanted to break the unexpected awkwardness in the air between them, but he was not sure what he could possibly say to alleviate the tension. So instead he kept quiet and watched Bald John as they gathered their belongings, desperately hoping to at least catch his eye and enjoy one of those unique not-quite-a-smile smiles that Bald John did so well.

He was denied this pleasure. Just when John thought the silence and sudden distance between them was more than he could handle, Bald John spoke abruptly. Dressed now in a pair of faded jeans and a black canvas jacket, his hands were shoved aggressively in his pockets. "Are you coming to the pub? I don't know about you, but I could really use a drink after that."

For the sake of John's sanity he chose to believe that Bald John was talking about the particularly arduous practice, and not what took place afterwards. Either way, something in Bald John's tone made John uneasy. He suddenly wanted nothing less than to endure this sullen attitude from Bald John.

"No," John said, shrugging into his winter coat. "I'm knackered. I think I'm just going to head home."

With nothing more than a curt nod – and still no eye contact – Bald John took off out the door, leaving John alone.

And that, John Bennett, is why you were denying yourself the pleasure of flirting with him.

Throughout the walk home all John could think about was the sudden change in his co-striker. He knew that inevitable moment had finally come - Bald John had been spooked. Some invisible line had finally been crossed and their innocent flirting - the touching, the smiles, the hugs during matches - all of it could no longer be ignored. This truth weighed heavy on John. He kicked a pebble on the pavement in front of him and watched it bounce and skitter into the road. He felt suddenly exhausted. Walking up the pavement to his house, all John wanted was to curl up with a cup of tea and take a nap.

As he approached the house, however, John noticed that the door was already open and resting on the latch. Adrenaline flooded through him as he pushed the door open and walked into the dark hallway. Light was filtering out from the back of the house, casting the foyer in a weak gloom.

"Hello?" John called out to whoever was sitting in his kitchen. He dropped his duffle bag in the hallway and headed towards the source of the light.

"I can't believe you leave a spare key under the doormat," a very familiar voice called back. "Honestly Jonathan, anyone could come swanning in here."

As John turned the corner into the kitchen, he saw her. Her dark brown hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, and she was drinking tea from his favourite red mug with her feet up on his kitchen table. It was as though she'd been doing it every day since he was born. Which, he supposed, she had.

"Ashley!" he exclaimed with a mix of thrill and incredulity.

She waved.

"Hey, baby brother."

* * *

John Bennett had been sixteen years old when he lost his virginity to a boy in his GCSE Chemistry class. His name was Alexander Martin and John had been in love with him for the better part of three years.

They were never friends, exactly, but they floated in roughly similar social circles and John had ardently believed – as people are prone to where their First Love is concerned – that he had never before, nor would he ever again, meet someone of such casual grace, easy wit, and rapturous beauty to rival that of Alexander Martin. John himself at the time had been confident, funny, social – even arrogant. All of this went out the window, however, when it came to Alexander. He had an effect on John which, at the time, John had mistakenly attributed to love. In reality, it was something closer to intimidation.

One completely unremarkable Friday afternoon, Alexander approached John and asked to come around that weekend so they could revise for their Chemistry exam together. John could not remember ever having had a conversation with Alexander before, let alone spending an afternoon alone together, so he had positively jumped at the opportunity.

And so, they had been spending a Saturday at John's house revising when, quite out of the blue, Alexander had kissed him. One moment John had been reading about the properties of the Periodic Table, and the next Alexander had a hand on John's lap and his tongue was probing John's woefully inexperienced mouth.

In years to come, John would look back on this memory with the kind of shame that can only come with age, because at the time he could not have hoped to know any better. Indeed as it was, John had been so stunned by the attention suddenly presented to him, that he did not know how to make any kind of a decision relating to it. When at one point John had hesitated, Alexander broke away and looked at John with an annoyed expression.

"Come on, John" he had said (the sound of Alexander's firmly seductive voice remained with John well into his adulthood), "I've seen the way you look at me."

And that had been all the discussion they'd had on the matter. The whole thing had been so quick that John was barely able to process the event while it was happening. And when he thought back on it, he found he remembered the moments surrounding his first time much better than he remembered the experience itself.

In fact, his strongest memories of that time had much more to do with his sister Ashley than with Alexander. Mere minutes after finishing, John had heard the front door open and slam from downstairs.

"Jonathan!" The distinct sounds of his sister had brought John crashing back down to reality. His parents were away for the weekend but he had completely forgotten that Ashley said she needed to come home from university for a few days to get some work done for her dissertation. His stomach completely dropped out of him and cold, paralyzing dread fuelled him into action.

"Shit!" John shot out of bed in an instant – the instincts of an athlete had more than a few advantages – and desperately tried to pull on a socially acceptable amount of clothing. Alexander followed behind, lazily shuffling into his boxers.

"Hurry." John hissed at him. Alexander didn't pay him very much attention.

"John!" Ashley called again, her voice distinctly louder as she moved up the stairs.

"I'm in my room… just… give me one second!" John called back to her as he hurled the rest of Alexander's clothes at him. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" he whispered to Alexander, "hide!"

But it was too late. John had known Ashley wouldn't heed his demand for a minute. Rather, she burst in the door and stopped dead at the scene before her. John buried his face in the t-shirt he hadn't managed to pull on in time.

Ashley just stood there in a stunned silence for what felt to John like an age. Blushing slightly, she looked between John and Alexander slowly, taking in the whole scene around her. John tried his best to avoid eye contact with her, but when he felt her gaze upon him, he couldn't help but look up at her. He had never seen such a look in Ashley before, and it was one of the things that, in retrospect, he remembered the most. It was a mix of so many emotions, but John could definitely pull out a few of them from her features – shock, hurt, worry, compassion, love, and… amusement?

Suddenly, Ashley was laughing. Not a giggle or a nervous chuckle, but a hearty kind of laugh that burst from her chest like this was the funniest thing she'd ever seen. Her beanpole figure doubled-over in hysterics. In time, her breathing returned to normal, and she straightened up.

"Hi," she said to Alexander, who for his part, looked perfectly at ease with the situation. "I'm Ashley, John's sister." Her normally pale cheeks were still bright red, but her commanding presence has returned.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Alexander," Alexander held out his hand. Only John, it seemed, was embarrassed beyond words.

"Did you use a condom?" She asked him, her tone turning abruptly firm and clinical. Ashley was studying medicine and had less than no squeamishness when it came to any type of health, sexual or otherwise.

"Yes," Alexander replied. He even picked it up from the floor where it had been discarded to show her.

"Good." She nodded matter-of-factly.

Her gaze turned back to John. Unlike with Bald John and his impossible-to-read facial expressions, Ashley and John had always communicated best with no words at all. She just stood there for one final moment, her warm eyes locked with his. There were so many questions in her features. Are you okay? Are you happy? Why didn't you tell me? Her face greeted him with so much love that he felt painfully guilty for ever having doubted that she would accept him. I'm sorry, he tried to say.

The thought alone seemed to satisfy her. She turned on her heel and started walking back downstairs, calling to John over her shoulder that she was going to make some pasta for dinner if he and Alexander wanted some carbs after their workout.

And that was how John came out to his sister.

Three days later, Alexander Martin shattered John's naïve heart.

He had been treating him for days with the exact same polite indifference he had before they’d slept together. Any attempt John made to catch his eye or to smile was met with a determinedly averted gaze or at best a cool nod.

Eventually, John reminded himself that he was a confident, popular, funny person in his own right, and he did not need permission to talk to someone. So, he strode up to Alexander as they were leaving school and asked him in a firm voice to go out with him that Friday night.

Alexander had glanced around the school ground furtively to make sure no one was listening and then he turned back to John with an expression of bemused condescension.

"John, I don't know what you were expecting, but I'm not…"

John stopped listening after that. Alexander went on to explain in a patronizing tone that he wasn't even sure if he was gay, he just wasn't interested in dating anyone, but "hey, we could still, you know, hang out, if you wanted." But above all they definitely couldn't tell anyone at school about it.

That afternoon, Ashley had found John curled up on his bed sobbing. Without asking a single question, she just marched straight into his room, kicked off her shoes and climbed onto the bed with him. She held him for an hour while he cried until he was so exhausted that he fell asleep. When he woke up many hours later he found a piping hot mug of tea and a tin of candy penises from one of those novelty sweet shops.

And that was Ashley all over. She took everything and nothing seriously.

* * *

After the day – and months – John was having, there was no one in the world he wanted to see more than his sister. And there she was, sitting at his kitchen table like a gift dropped out of nowhere. All of the exhaustion of his day, the practice, his flirting and subsequent fall-out with Bald John, and Ashley's sudden arrival, all of it crashed down on him, and he let out a tiny dry sob in spite of himself.

Ashley looked up in sudden alarm at John's evident emotional exhaustion. She dropped her feet from the kitchen table and stood up to wrap her arms around him in a fierce hug.

"Sorry," she said over his shoulder. "Maybe I should have called first?"

John laughed and released her.

"I'm really glad you're here," he smiled. Then paused. "Why are you here?" John motioned for her to come into the living room. They took seats on the couch, facing each other so they could more comfortably catch up.

"Well there's a conference in London this week about the value of genome-wide association studies as they related to the discovery of new therapeutic techniques for breast cancer," she rattled off, shrugging. "It looked interesting, so I thought I'd go."

John laughed; his sister the Cambridge educated oncologist, and he the bottom-league footballer with no A-levels. How they could be so different and so similar never ceased to amaze him.

"I'm sure it'll be great." He said. "But you may have noticed that we're not in London."

Ashley sneered at him. "Yes, thank you for that insight. The conference doesn't start until tomorrow, so I thought I would pay my dear darling baby brother a visit. Is that so wrong?"

"Depends," John countered, "do you expect to sleep on dear darling brother's couch?"

"No, of course not!" Ashley said in mock outrage. "I fully expect you'll give up your bed to me and you'll take the couch. I am your guest after all."

John very much wanted to protest that she was his uninvited guest, but he knew it was no use. He never had been able to beat Ashley in an argument. Besides which, sensing that she had won, she abruptly changed the topic.

"So," she said, "It's only been six whole months since I last saw you – fill me in! How's the town? How's the new team? More importantly, how are the men on the team? Any…?" she wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

John hit her with a couch cushion, because adults or not, they were still siblings. Despite the fact that she had been kidding, however, John sighed and collapsed into the sofa dramatically. Ashley perked up at this and looked over at him in interest.

"Seriously?" she asked, unable to hide her incredulity, "I thought you had a rule about this kind of thing –"

"I do!" John moaned, flopping one arm over his eyes.. "But this… it's different with John."

Ashley laughed, "You're not talking about Bald John! Tell me you do not have a crush on your co-striker!"

John sat up and looked at her in surprise.

"Oh please, Jonathan," Ashley answered his unasked question. "I read the Swindon Town Gazette. You think I wouldn't know the names of your teammates?" Ashley really didn't have much of an interest in football at all, so while it wasn't all that surprising that she would keep up with how the Swoodilypoopers were doing, he was touched all the same. "But that's completely besides the point," she continued, "The point is that you have a crush on Bald John Green!" She was half shouting with excitement.

John panicked and for a brief moment was petrified that Bald John might have come home without them having noticed. He looked around the living room frantically, as though expecting to find Bald John crouched under the coffee table.

"Will you kindly keep your sodding voice down!" John hissed at her.

She looked at him apologetically, taking in his ridiculous overreaction to her statement. John watched as she noticed the changes in him and began to put something together.

"You're really not kidding though, are you?" she asked. "I mean, you really like him."

John didn't answer.

Her voice fell serious. "John, do you love him?"

Before John had a chance to consider the question – let alone his answer – he was cut off by the sound of a key in the front door. Ashley looked up in confusion.

"Do you live with someone?" But the door was opening and closing before John could answer either of her questions.

"John?" he could hear Bald John calling from the front door, "We gave up on the Giraffe's. The heating is broken and no amount of mulled wine, which is disgusting by the way, could hope to warm that place up, so Lallana offered to –" he cut himself off when he entered the living room and noticed the company.

There was still an edge of ice in Bald John's voice that suggested his earlier mood had not yet abated. But John hoped that had more to do with the miserable weather than with their flirting earlier. Either way, he had no time to dwell on it; the look on Ashley's face was his primary concern. She thought – he was sure she thought – that they were _living together_ , as opposed to just living together. And worse still, he had no clue how to explain before she said something that might just succeed in pushing Bald John even further away.

He looked at her beseechingly. _Don't say anything. This is not what it looks like. Please don't say a single goddamned thing._

She looked confused, but he thought she might have at least got the message.

"You're John Green, aren't you?" Ashley smiled blithely, reaching out her hand to him. "Big fan. Love the… moustache."

Bald John chuckled, but there was a tension in his jaw and shoulders. He looked uncomfortable, or irritated, or possibly like he was on edge about something. John was still unsure when it came to reading most of Bald John's emotions.

"Nice to meet you," he said. "Are you a friend of John's?"

"This is my sister, Ashley." John chimed in, standing up from where he had been curled into the couch.

Something shifted in Bald John upon hearing this news, and John thought he might have relaxed just slightly.

"I've heard a lot about you,” he said, smiling at Ashley. John wished he didn't notice the way his smile wasn't reaching his eyes.

"Likewise," she said pointedly.

John was pretty sure Bald John wouldn't have picked up on Ashley's subtle tease, but he still had to fight a desperate urge to throw something at her. "John," she continued, still talking to Bald John, "would you like to join us for dinner?"

Bald John looked over at him. John thought he looked conflicted about something. Did he feel as though Ashley had trapped him into needing to say yes? Was he looking for an excuse not to go? But then he saw something else; something different broke through the coldness in his features, and of all things it looked to John like desire. And then he finally understood. Bald John was silently trying to ask him for permission. _Do you want me to come?_ his eyes were asking.

Slowly, carefully, John nodded once.

* * *

Swindon as a town was not well serviced with posh restaurants.

John, John, and Ashley wandered up and down the High Street twice before they eventually had to settle for a dingy-looking local Italian restaurant. As they were led inside by the hostess and sat at their table, John tried to mentally prepare himself for the evening. If Ashley could manage to keep her innuendos in check, they all might just make it through dinner unscathed.

What John had not considered, however, was Bald John's fluctuating temperament. Whatever it was that had been bothering him for most of the evening, dinner did not help. He was not outright hostile or cold, but noticeably detached, and put shockingly little effort into hiding it. He was even less of a conversationalist than usual and answered most questions in monosyllables.

“So John,” Ashley said as they waited for their meals to arrive, “whereabouts in America are you from?”

“West Virginia.” Bald John’s eyes barely rose from the slice of bread he was picking at.

“Oh, I’ve never been – is it nice?”

“It’s fine.”

A look of uncertainty flashed across her features, but she tried again. “What made you decide to move to England?”

“Dunno. I suppose it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Ashley gave up after that.

With every passing minute John felt himself growing on the one hand embarrassed that this was Ashley's first impression of the man he may or may not be in love with, and on the other hand angry at Bald John for not even pretending to have a nice time. Why did he even agree to come if he was going to miserable? What could have possibly happened to make Bald John abandon every ounce of his normal charm?

Every so often John thought he caught something along the lines of remorse or regret in Bald John's eyes. It seemed that he felt bad for being such terrible company, but not bad enough to actually be better company. Which, as far as John was concerned, didn’t cut it. For the first time since they had met, he found himself getting annoyed with Bald John.

Mid-way through the meal, when Bald John had excused himself to go to the toilet, Ashley turned to John with something akin to reproach.

"Seriously, John? Him?"

"He's not usually like this!" John was surprised to find how much her disapproval pained him. Her good opinion of Bald John had been much more important to him than he’d realized. "I – I don't know what's wrong with him. Honestly, he was fine this morning. Then…" John trailed off, remembering their very physical encounter on the grounds after practice.

"Then, what?" she asked, speaking quickly so they could finish their conversation before Bald John returned.

"Well, we were kind of… flirting… and… I don't know. I think I might have spooked him, or something. But I don't think that explains why he's so angry!"

Ashley, in contrast, had breathed a sigh of exasperation. "Oh John, don't be thick! He's not angry, he's – "

But Ashley never got a chance to finish her sentence, as Bald John came back into view and joined them at the table. And, to his credit, made a considerably greater effort to get to know Ashley over the rest of dinner. They stumbled through the evening in shades of awkward, but by the end Ashley had clearly warmed to Bald John at least a little, and even made him laugh once or twice.

Despite the uptick in mood, it was plain to John that something was still wrong. He had purposefully spent a lot of time in the past months studying his co-striker and the various ways Bald John masked his emotions. It was there in the hunching of his shoulders, his averted gaze, and the way he fidgeted with his hands – all of which were uncharacteristic of Bald John. Still, John was no closer to discovering the cause of his friend’s distress.

When the evening finally ended and they had returned home, Bald John excused himself without any preamble, and disappeared into his room for the remainder of the evening. Meanwhile, John and Ashley sat up together for a while longer. Ultimately exhaustion got the best of them both and Ashley went to sleep upstairs (after John firmly informed her that she absolutely must take the bed – just like she had known he would) and John curled up on the couch with a blanket.

* * *

John's cheek was glued to the leather of the couch when he awoke the following morning. The light filtering through the bay window cast the living room in dim winter grey. Peeling his cheek off the couch cushion, John glanced outside. The dark clouds hanging low in the sky all but guaranteed rain for their match later that day. Groaning at the stiffness in his neck, John sat up and took in the rest of his surroundings. Warm yellow light was filtering from under the door to the kitchen, and voices emanated softly from inside. John stood and draped his blanket around himself like a toga, before heading towards the kitchen.

Bald John and Ashley were sitting at the kitchen table with coffee mugs in hand and a large stack of American-style pancakes on a serving dish at the centre of the table. Their own plates showed evidence of a breakfast they had already consumed. Perhaps most surprising of all, they had clearly been engaged in conversation when John walked in, which was abruptly silenced when they noticed him.

"Morning," Ashley said with a slightly strained smile. She looked smart and professional in a deep purple skirt and button-down grey blouse, with her hair tied up in a neat knot.

"Hey," John replied, his eyes trained entirely on Bald John, who was intensely examining a nick on the side of his chair.

"Bald John made me breakfast!" Ashley said a little too loudly, in an attempt to crash through the awkward. "At least he wakes up at a normal hour."

John glanced at the clock on the wall. "It's 8:30!" he couldn't help retorting, "Any earlier than this and it's still the night before!" Ashley laughed and the tension in the room lessened. Dimly, John thought that she might have been winding him up with the express purpose of killing the uncomfortable air between them. It was moments like that when he remembered how grateful he was to her around.

She stood up and took a final swig of her coffee as she straightened her pencil skirt with one hand."But your timing is great, Jonathan. I was just about to wake you – I've got to head down to London. The conference starts later this morning."

John's heart sank. She had just arrived, and he didn't think he was ready to be without her yet. "You can't stay to watch our match later this morning?" he knew he sounded like a child, but he was suddenly desperate for her to stay a bit longer.

For a moment her brow knit together, she pursed her lips, and John was convinced she would refuse. Then she seemed to note the pleading look in his eyes and her features softened. 

"Alright then. It's only a stupid conference. And I can cure breast cancer tomorrow." John grinned at her and sat down at the table between Bald John – who was still staring doggedly at his own chair – and Ashley, pushing her plate towards him and loading it up with the leftover pancakes.

* * *

If John had been worried about how his suddenly strained relationship with Bald John would affect their ability to play together, he needn't have been. Even in the freezing December rain, the Swoodilypoopers had Oxford City FC thoroughly dominated at 3 – nil by halftime. John could not possibly complain about the way they were playing together. He did notice, however, that Bald John had avoided hugging him in all of their post-goal celebrations.

After John assisted him to the first goal of the match, he had raced towards the stands and acknowledged the Swindon fans while Beef Stock and Ginger (who finally got to see some play once they were already up 2 – nil) tackled him to the ground playfully.

The second goal had been Leeroy Williamson's alone, after he made a beautiful run down the left side from their own midfield all the way to the back of the net. In celebration, he'd danced all the way back again from the edge of the box to the centre line, picking up the rest of the team as he went.

The third point was John's. He and Bald John made a rat-a-tat passing play that Patrick had been drilling into them for weeks. They moved quickly up the opposing field, passing frequently to each other as they went. Eventually, he spotted an opening and took it, landing the ball in the bottom right corner of the net with practiced ease. This celebration was the hardest for John. Instinctively he looked up and found Bald John, as he did after every goal. Their eyes met and Bald John offered him a smile, but neither moved to congratulate the other. Before he knew it, play had resumed and John could not have said with any clarity what he had done to even acknowledge the goal.

He wished that Bald John's distance did not bother him as much as it did, but when John punched home their fourth goal off a free kick in the 57th minute, his actions betrayed him. He turned around to find Bald John smiling at him, and barrelled right into his arms, whether Bald John wanted him to or not. He remembered, in an attempt to rationalize his actions, that John had not been asked permission when he was first engulfed in Bald John's embrace. Why could he not do the same in return?

There was a split second – no longer than the length of a heartbeat – when Bald John did not react at all. And then he was there, gripping the back of John's jersey with such intensity that he could feel the material bunching under Bald John's fingers. Bald John's breath was heavy on the side of his neck, and he could feel the pounding of his heartbeat.

“Nice shot,” he whispered against John’s neck. A rush of attraction and profound relief coursed through John’s veins. As they clung together in the rain, he knew, with a clarity that he had never before been afforded, that whatever was going on between them mattered. It was important. They weren’t just flirting, and John didn’t have a crush.

* * *

After the final whistle blew, John dressed quickly and rushed out to meet Ashley without even showering. He paused only long enough to pat Lee enthusiastically on his shoulder for a match well won.If Ashley could get out to London before the end of the afternoon, she might be able to make the end of Day 1 at the conference. She was grinning and waiting for him with her bag slung over her shoulder. She started forward to hug him in congratulations, when she stopped and pulled back.

"Oh Jonathan, you stink!" John just laughed and took her bag from her as they started off towards the train station. No sooner had they walked half a block towards the station, when Ashley turned to John with startling sincerity, all traces of jest gone from her features. "Listen, John, I need to talk to you about Bald John…"

"I get it, Ash," John cut in, "I know he wasn't exactly on his best behaviour last night, but I swear, he's not usually so –"

"No, listen. You need to cut him some slack. A lot of it, actually." John looked over at her and took in the earnest expression on her face. "He's…" Ashley paused and took a breath. "He came down early this morning and made breakfast for me because he said he wanted to apologize for the way he behaved last night."

"Okay," John said, wondering with mild alarm where she was going with this.

"So we got to talking, and…" Again Ashley stopped and sighed. "John, he signed his divorce papers yesterday."

John felt like Ashley had punched him in the gut. Hard. He tried to speak, but found be was unable. Instead, they just continued walking as John tried to make sense of the past twenty-four hours. And the more he thought about it, the more Bald John’s behaviour made sense. The distance, the evasion, the clear conflict in his eyes. John felt guilt spread through his veins like a poison. He shouldn't have been flirting, encouraging, or pushing Bald John when he clearly wasn't ready. Amongst his guilt, John also felt a stab of frustration. If Bald John had only told him, opened up just a little bit, then all of this could have been avoided.

"Wait," John said, his thoughts finally finding purchase on his tongue. "Why did he tell you?" He knew he sounded accusatory, but he was having trouble controlling his feeling of betrayal.

"I honestly don't know," Ashley replied, her voice quiet with apology. "But I think he was hoping that I would tell you so he wouldn't have to. I think he needs you."

But this was not what John wanted to hear. He had never in his life been truly needed by anyone, and the idea frightened him. The fact that it was Bald John only made it worse, when John thought he might just need him back. With a sigh he looped his arm around his sister's shoulder and hitched her bag higher on his shoulder.

"Thanks for telling me, anyway."

"I'm really sorry, John. But really you should hear…" Again Ashley paused, considering whether or not she wanted to continue.

This was a bad habit of hers that always used to drive John mad when they were younger. She would begin a sentence with a conspiratorial whisper and then halt mid-way through when she remembered it was a secret she wasn't meant to share. But his sister had always been terrible at keeping secrets. John knew Ashley well, and with just a sideways look of impatience, he got her talking again.

"Really John, you should hear the way he talks about you," she continued in a rush. "I think he might be completely crazy about you without even knowing it. Frankly, I've never heard anyone talk about you with such…" she paused to find the right word, "… reverence, pride…" The word ‘love’ hung in the air between them, unsaid, but unmistakably implied.

Again John found his throat uncomfortably tight. He simply nodded and offered his sister a small smile.

"So, how's Mum?" John asked in an obvious attempt to change the subject.

They spent the rest of the long walk to the station catching up on Ashley's news from back home. John was not good at keeping in touch with his parents, so he mostly counted on Ashley to catch him up about them. He listened to her as they walked, soaking in her self-deprecating humour as she gossiped about their family or gentle sarcasm when she told him about her latest boyfriend. He teased her about anything he could think of, and tried his best to enjoy the moment, knowing that it might well be a while before they were next able to see each other.

When they finally arrived at the station, John quietly passed her bag back. She threw it over her shoulder and met his eyes with a familiar determination. Putting one hand around the back of his neck, she pulled him forward and wrapped her arms around him firmly.

"Give him time, yeah?" she said over his shoulder.

"Thanks, sis." He released her and she looked at him sadly for a moment.

"And don't be a stranger! I want to hear about all the gossip before I read it in the bloody Swindon Gazette."

She pecked him a quick kiss on his cheek, then she was gone. John was left feeling keenly alone. But as he turned around to walk back up the hill, his heart leapt in his chest when he saw Bald John. Wearing a Swindon Town windbreaker and his usual pair of worn jeans, he was standing at the far edge of the station, leaning again the brick exterior.

"Hey!" John exclaimed, surprised.

"Hey, yourself,” Bald John replied with a wry smile.

“Listen, I'm really sorry," John said as they began to walk side by side back towards the house. "I mean, Ashley told me about… I hope you don't mind, I think she just wanted to make sure… Anyway, I'm really sorry."

Bald John just shook his head and waved his hand as though trying to dispel John's apology.

"I'm the one who should be apologizing" Bald John replied, his voice finally returning to the tone and cadence that John recognized and loved so well. "It's been a rough couple of days. But that’s no excuse, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

"Don't worry about it." John said, easily. "That's what family is for."

And as soon as he said it, John knew it was right. He thought about Ashley – his mother, his sister, his best friend and his family. And Bald John – his co-striker, his housemate, his partner in so many ways – was, above all else, his family.

* * *

Fat Lucas's booming laugh and the buzzing of multiple overlapping conversations reverberated through the crowded Giraffe's Head. Handmade paper chains of red and green were strung over the lighting fixtures throughout the pub, and the small chandelier in the centre of the room had been adorned with silver tinsel. With every movement of the front door, a gust of wind picked up the light pieces of tinsel and caused them to float with a somewhat depressing finality to the floor, like silver snowflakes. A squat fake Christmas tree was shoved into the far corner, decked with plastic baubles and a short set of fairy lights. All in all, the Christmas decorations in the Giraffe's Head were more miserable than festive, but John found he liked them the more for it.

The entire team had gathered for their Christmas dinner party in the pub. It didn't matter to any of them that it was only the 11th, or that it was likely to be the most any of them really got to celebrate the holiday. The football season picks up in its intensity during the Christmas season, and with matches scheduled for Christmas Eve and Boxing Day, none of them were going to get much of a chance to go home. And so, they celebrated together as a surrogate family.

They had arrived at the pub at three in the afternoon, and by nine they were fit to bursting with Sunday roast, mulled wine, and copious amounts of beer. John was wedged against the corner of the table with Bald John on one side, and an increasingly drunk Sir Cuthbert on the other. John himself had consumed a fair amount of alcohol and was feeling pleasantly warm. Swaying slightly in his chair, he listened to Cuthbert tell an animated story about a prank he pulled while attending Eton wherein they had removed the furniture from the cafeteria and nailed it firmly to the roof.

"We should do that here!" He was half-slurring from drink. "Bring the Giraffe's Head into the open air!"

Voluptuous quietly pointed out to him that it was winter, and about four degrees outside.

"We've got beer for jackets!" Cuthbert declared in an attempt to rally the troops. John laughed, and sat back in his chair, as no one at the table moved.

Suddenly aware of being watched, John turned to look at Bald John, whose eyes were trained on him. He gave his co-striker a lazy smile, and leaned over, moving towards him so they were nearly touching. Not for the first time, John noticed an intensity in Bald John's gaze. The look had been appearing with greater frequency in the past week since Ashley had left.

Despite John's epiphany during the Oxford City match, he had done nothing to address his non-relationship with Bald John. Ashley had warned him that Bald John might need some time to deal with his divorce, and John had been trying as much as possible to give it to him. But when Bald John looked at him with all those emotions that John didn't have the names for behind his eyes, this restraint got much more difficult. John still couldn't guess what was going on in Bald John's head, and he was starting to feel at a distinct disadvantage, for he was sure his desire was being broadcast for anyone who cared enough to notice. So, despite Ashley's words, spurred by the alcohol in his veins and the love in his heart, John decided to test the waters a little.

"Happy Christmas," John said, so quietly that he leaned in to Bald John a little, allowing his breath to caress Bald John's cheek.

Bald John let out a breathy laugh.

"It's only the 11th," he reminded John.

"Still," John said, "It's the most Christmas any of us will get. May as well make the most of it, eh?"

With this, he leaned in half an inch closer, so that John could feel the hairs of Bald John's moustache brushing the base of his ear. And as gently as he dared, he let one of his hands rest on Bald John's thigh.

And then he pulled away abruptly, scanning Bald John's features. Sure enough, he finally saw what he had been trying to tease out: desire. Bald John's eyes were dark and hooded, he was leaning forward towards John, and appeared slightly dazed when he noticed that John had pulled away. John felt both elated and a little stupid. Looking around, he was relieved to find that no one at the table was paying them any attention. Even if they had been, it's not unusual to lean close to someone to speak in a crowded room. But still, John berated himself for being so cavalier with his affections in public.

He also felt stupid for trying to seduce Bald John. He imagined Ashley's expression if she had been there to witness his display, an even mix of amusement and chastisement. The guy just got divorced, Jonathan, he heard her voice crystal clear in his head. Show a little restraint.

Abashed by his own conscience, he re-engaged in the conversation at the table – Leeroy and Fitz Hall had started debating the merits of winter Pimms – and tried to keep Bald John at a safe distance for the rest of the evening.

* * *

By one in the morning the proprietor of the Giraffe's Head was herding them all outside into the small parking lot. The general consensus was for the team to move on to the local nightclub. Instinctively, John looked to see what Bald John wanted to do. Bald John, however, seemed to be waiting for him to make a decision. John wasn't sure how much he wanted to go to the club, but he definitely didn't trust himself to spend the rest of the evening alone with Bald John. He was certain that if they went home together now, the alcohol in John's system would betray him and he would jump his housemate before reason could argue.

So John agreed to go to the club. After a brief pause, Bald John declared he was going home. Rejection hit John squarely in the chest, but he took a breath. Give him time.

As Bald John began to turn for home, while the rest of the group moved in the other direction towards the club, John jogged up to Bald John.

"John," he said, causing Bald John to turn and face him.

Bald John looked at him expectantly but said nothing.

"I just…" John paused. He wanted to explain. To apologize for trying to push him. _I'll wait for you,_ he wanted to say. But instead, he said, "I'll come with you, if you ever decide you do want to come out."

Immediately, John regretted his choice of words. He had meant come out clubbing, but the secondary meaning was undeniable. He flushed red.

"Clubbing!" he half-yelled. "I mean, if you ever want to come out clubbing, I'll… you know… come…" He trailed off, damning his most recent pint for making him so dim-witted.

Bald John smiled his enigmatic smile, and captured John's right hand in his left.

"Thanks," he said. And John thought that just maybe he had understood what John was trying to say. John gently brushed his thumb against the back of Bald John hand.

"I'll see you at home," he said, and then released Bald John's hand as he turned and ran to catch up with the rest of the team, who were already walking away towards the club.

* * *

* * *

It wasn't that Bald John didn't drink. He did. More accurately, he didn't like to drink in excess. He had experienced a few too many times what happened to him when he did, and without fail he would awake the next morning with a feeling of dread and not much memory, convinced that he had done or said something that required apologizing. It wasn't pleasant. Put simply, the pleasure of being drunk not being good enough to outweigh the horrificness of being hung over.

This was true, but it wasn't why he declined to join the others on their trip to Lava.

Even as Bald John sat in the painfully quiet kitchen trying to read his book, he could still feel John's breath on his cheek. Their bodies pushed so close together that he could feel the heat between them. The desire in John's eyes had made him nearly dizzy with lust. So, no. Going to the club would not have been a good idea. In the dark corners of a dank club, fuelled by alcohol, John was not sure his control would hold. He wasn't sure he wanted it to. It was all so confusing that he decided to avoid temptation completely. _Sure Green_ , his conscience reprimanded him, _because hiding from your problems is the adult thing to do._ It wasn't as though the source of his temptation had gone anywhere – they lived under the same roof! Yet another thing he could blame on his own idiotic desire to constantly be in John Bennett's presence.

And here was the source of his problems. John Bennett. Beautiful, funny, kind, passionate, Other John. He was in many ways everything Bald John was not, but on some level he understood how perfectly matched that made them. Bald John was generally a quiet man. He was passionate about a number of things – his friends, his family, his football (he also had a very strong interest in Ancient Roman political history that he'd only told Other John about) – but his passions tended to run deep, and it was rare for his emotions to boil over. Other John, in contrast, broadcasted his emotions for all to see. At times this was a wonderful thing – in moments of celebration, excitement, or joy, Other John's emotions were infectious and filled a room like a beacon of light. Equally, he was incapable of controlling his negative emotions, to the point that when he was angry or upset his mood would fall across everyone around him like a shadow. This sharp contrast in their temperaments was most clearly visible in their starkly different footballing styles. Bald John prided himself on being a calm and controlled footballer. He struck the ball deliberately and his movements were powerful, precise, and always perfectly calculated. In contrast, Other John was a torrent of energy. His attacks were raw and full of barely harnessed strength. Both styles were effective in their own ways, but they were unstoppable in tandem. John was convinced that this core difference was what produced the magic they were quickly becoming famous for on the pitch. It also made for an excellent personal relationship. Other John was the energy and Bald John the tether.

John found that he could barely remember how he had played football for years without Other John, without his strength and the glint in his eyes, without their ability to pass to each other without even needing to look up. Bald John could not have pinpointed when it happened, but he was utterly convinced that he was in love with Other John.

But even as he admitted it to himself, even as he could feel it with every fibre of his soul, John could also feel the persistent, gnawing guilt. If he was in love with Other John then surely he must be gay. The idea had never even occurred to him before. He had been expected to love women, so he had loved women. And he really had loved Lindsay. He still did. But it wasn't the same. He had cared about her, respected her, and wanted the best for her. And at the time he had believed that was all a marriage needed. He thought that feeling all those things meant he was in love. He couldn't have known how wrong he was because he had never been in love. Rationally John knew that their marriage had failed for a lot of reasons: Lindsay was ambitious and didn't like needing to accommodate John's career. She had never wanted to move to England, and spoke frequently about wanting them to go home to America. John could never explain to her that Swindon was his home. She also desperately wanted children. John also wanted children, but even early in their marriage on some level he could sense that it was a bad idea. There was no laughter in their home, they were never really happy together, and he couldn't bear the idea of bringing a child into such a home. But all of these things notwithstanding, it was only when John met Other John that he understood – their marriage didn't work because he didn't love Lindsay the way she needed to be loved.

And so the guilt would sometimes consume him. If he had been gay his whole life, then was he personally responsible for wasting three years of Lindsay's life? This guilt ate away at him and stayed his hand every time he thought he might burst if he didn't act on his feelings towards Other John. He felt as though he was straddling a chasm between what he thought his life had been, and what he wanted it to be. And he was terrified to pick a side, because hadn't he hurt Lindsay enough for one lifetime?

But then he thought about John Bennett, and the times when he had seen his own desires mirrored in his eyes. He thought about what Other John had told him before going to the club, his hand in John's, making it burn under his touch. He's waiting for you. And didn't he owe it to himself and the man he loved to give them a shot at happiness?

As if on cue, John heard the sound of a key in the front lock. He set down the mug of tea he had just made and walked toward the front door. The Johns met in the entrance to the living room. Other John's eyes were blazing with determination, and he looked more sober than he had all evening. Instinctively John felt that there was something he wanted to say, so he waited for Other John to speak.

Other John took a deep breath, looking Bald John squarely in the eyes. "John Green," he said, "I'm gay."

This wasn't news to John. He had never said it out loud, but he didn't think they would have been flirting so much if he weren't. Even so, hearing the words was thrilling, and they filled Bald John with a jolt of anticipation.

"Yes," he breathed in response. And with all the intensity of jumping across a chasm, "I think I might be gay too."

Other John nodded as though somehow satisfied. "Okay," he said. "I just thought I should probably tell you. Just in case there was any misunderstanding."

Bald John let out a short laugh. There definitely wasn't any misunderstanding.

Other John took a step back then, and moved to mount the stairs to his bedroom. "Goodnight, John." He said, looking sadly back at Bald John.

Bald John felt suddenly bereft. Was that it? And then he remembered. He's waiting for you. Other John was refusing to make a move until he believed Bald John was ready.

Something in Bald John's mind finally clicked, and everything he wanted came into sharp focus. Before he knew what he was doing, he moved forward in a rush and captured Other John's lips in a kiss.

* * *

* * *

When John awoke the following morning, it took him a minute to remember why he wasn't in his own bed. Smiling in recollection of the previous night's events, he rolled onto his side, expecting to find Bald John next to him. He was surprised – and a little dismayed – to find his side of the bed empty. When John reached out all the same, the sheets were cool under his touch.

Sitting up, he pulled himself – shivering in the brisk December morning – into the shower. Fifteen minutes later, his hair still wet and sticking out at odd angles, John padded downstairs.

In the time it had taken him to wake up and take a shower, he had managed to convince himself that the night before had been a mistake. He could already picture Bald John's face when he got downstairs: his ears a shade too red, his eyes trained on the floor, and murmuring (in the way he does when he's nervous) that maybe they should pretend it didn't happen.

 _But hey, we could still, you know… hang out… if you wanted._ Alexander Martin's words still rang in John's head, even so many years later. He dreaded hearing them from Bald John's lips.

On some level he knew he was being irrational, but he had trouble coming to terms with the alternative. What if Bald John did want him? The idea was entirely new to John, and he wasn't in the habit of allowing himself to believe good things could happen to him. _What happened to aiming for attainable goals, John? What makes you think Bald John has suddenly become attainable?_ His insecurities did such a good job of seeding doubt into his mind that by the time he arrived in the kitchen, he was truly afraid of seeing Bald John.

But, of course, his worries were wiped away with a single look. When he entered the kitchen, the grin that stretched across Bald John's features was so reassuring that John was filled with unexpected warmth. Even so, he had to be sure.

"Morning," he said in greeting, shuffling his feet uncomfortably on the wooden floorboards of the kitchen. "So, last night was… fun… but listen, I would understand if you don't want it to continue. I mean, it makes sense, you know? Until yesterday you weren't even –"

John never got a chance to finish his sentence.

Bald John had risen from his chair almost immediately, strode purposefully over to John, and kissed him with such enthusiasm that there was no further discussion to be had on the matter. When Bald John released him at last – one hand still around the back of John's neck – he was a little dazed, and couldn't for the life of him remember what he had been trying to say.

"Good morning." Bald John said finally. "I made some coffee if you'd like it."

And it was as easy as that. They never once had any further discussion regarding their relationship; it was just obvious to them. They were quite simply everything to each other, and really, what more was there to say?

Christmas itself ended up being one of John's all-time best. He and Bald John spent the first half in bed, before finally rousing themselves and feasting on coffee and homemade croissants. This was immediately followed by an intense afternoon practice where they promptly burned off the croissants. Later, they exchanged low-key presents and spent the evening watching It's a Wonderful Life on tv, which Bald John had sworn up and down was an American classic, and was openly appalled that John had never seen it. Eventually, the night ended the same way it had begun.

One week after New Year, they took the train up to Liverpool together to visit John’s family. John got immense pleasure out of Ashley’s squeal of excitement when she saw them holding hands on her front step. John had deliberately avoided telling her so it might be a surprise. She hugged them both enthusiastically in turn, and they shared a second pseudo-Christmas dinner.

John’s parents greeted Bald John politely in their demure, impossibly British, fashion. Anna and Craig Bennett had been decent – if somewhat distant – parents to John. Growing up, if John ever needed help, he had always gone straight to Ashley rather than either of them. It was hardly a surprise, then, that he didn’t have much of a relationship with them as an adult. They were upright and well-to-do in designer clothing and £100 haircuts. But they were good people. They asked Bald John all of the right questions with polite interest, but demonstrated nothing close to Ashley’s unbridled zeal for their relationship.

Ashley managed to corner John while they prepared to bring out dessert. "So!" she exclaimed, having trapped him against the kitchen counter while he sliced up the Christmas pudding.

"So… what?" he teased her with a smile.

"So… what's all this?" she gestured between him and the closed kitchen door, through which Bald John was sitting at her dining room table. "When did this happen?"

John grinned, completely unable to control his child-like glee and, like good siblings should, he shared with her the gossip of the past month. After he finished, Ashley just laughed and looped her arm around his shoulders.

"So much for giving him time, eh, little brother?"

"You know me, Ash. I've never been very patient."

* * *

Barring their disappointing result at Hull City in November, the Swoodilypoopers were entering 2008 with one of the best winning streaks the club had seen in a very long time. This rather sudden improvement to their prospects had a number of surprising knock-on effects for the whole team.

Perhaps most startlingly of all was that as they started to improve, interest in football began to take hold again in Swindon. John noticed people's eyes would follow him and Bald John when they went jogging together through Queen's Park, or the Giraffe would be noticeably busier on evenings after a Swoodilypoopers match – though their table at the back always remained available to them. Once or twice John had even been stopped in the street by a fan. The first time this happened, John had been grocery shopping. A young girl, no older than sixteen, had approached him with a pen and a brightly coloured diary.

“Excuse me,” she asked, timid, but evidently determined. “Could I have your autograph?”

John looked up from the iceberg lettuce he had been inspecting. “What?” he asked, certain he had misheard. “Why?”

The poor girl looked so embarrassed that John stood in the middle of Tesco with his produce still in hand and chatted with her for ten minutes by way of apology. Bald John had laughed for minutes when the story was related to him later that afternoon.

One of the more interesting – though no less embarrassing – changes was that the team had begun holding small press conferences after some of their more important matches. Patrick, occasionally Manager John Green (during his relatively rare visits from the States), and a few members of the team would meet with the local press in the County Ground conference room. The conference room hadn't seen much use the since the team's brief foray in the Premiership during the early 90s. The décor remained similarly dated: dull red carpet covered the floor, the walls were badly in need of a paint job, and the whole room smelled of mothballs. Peter from the Gazette and a few other members of the local press would take seats at plastic folding chairs and ask the team some questions about the match they had played, about their tactics, or their goals, or their strategy for the rest of the season. Meanwhile, Hannah would stand at the back of the room taking some pictures. Mostly, though, she spent her time pulling faces at John, trying to make him laugh while one of the reporters was speaking. He was ashamed to say that she had even succeeded once or twice.

On one occasion, Hannah had him in a fit of giggles. Fat Lucas and Beef Stock had been sitting next to him at the plastic fold-out conference table, fielding questions from the reporters about Swindon's defensive tactics. Beef Stock, as an alternate, didn't usually participate in press conferences, but he'd had a particularly good match that afternoon, as Ginger Rampage was off with a pulled hamstring. Beef, it turned out, took the press conferences very seriously. He looked over at John, scandalized, as John tried to stifle his laughter behind a glass of water.

John was too busy frowning playfully at Hannah to notice Beef Stock and Fat Lucas looking from Hannah to John with interest.

At last the reporters had finished, and John could go home. With a wink and a grin to Hannah, he walked back to the lockers to pick up his things. As he was exiting the conference room, Beef Stock and Fat Lucas walked up, flanking him on either side. Beef Stock punched John affectionately on the arm in greeting. Rather, John assumed it was meant to be affectionate, but Beef Stock's size and general beefiness meant he hit John with enough force to make him stumble.

"So… OJ," he said with an air of forced carelessness. "What's going on with you and Hannah?"

John tripped over one of the locker room benches and crashed to the floor.

"What?" he scrambled back to his feet, trying to ignore the new throbbing pain in his calf and the laughter of his two teammates. "Nothing!'

Beef and Lucas both looked unconvinced. "But she is proper fit." Fat Lucas prompted.

"Yes," John was forced to admit.

"And you two are, like, friends, or whatever, right?" Beef continued.

"Yes."

"And you expect us to believe that you could be friends with someone like that, and not be –"

"Yes!" John was rapidly getting uncomfortable with the conversation. He could feel the heat of his own blush, and a sheen of sweat forming at his temples. Even worse, he knew his friends would misinterpret the cause of his anxiety.

"Why not?" Fat Lucas asked. They both looked genuinely confused.

"I don't know," John lied. "She's just not my type." Not a lie.

"A fit, smart, funny, blonde bird who's obsessed with football?" Fat Lucas' eyebrows were raised in incredulity. "Seriously, what's not to like?"

"She's… Scottish?" John tried. _Seriously, Bennett? Scottish? That's all you've got?_

His two friends still looked wholly unconvinced, but they said nothing more about it as they gathered up their bags and prepared to leave the stadium.

John was about to close his locker when a small, folded piece of lined paper caught his attention. The note looked like it had been pushed through the grating of his locker, most likely while he was in the press conference. John unfolded it and immediately recognized Bald John's neat handwriting.

_Sorry I couldn't wait for you, wanted to pick up some things for dinner. How do you feel about salmon? Too bad, by the time you're reading this I'll be halfway through making it. Besides, I know you love salmon. Come home soon? J x_

John folded the note back up along its crease and delicately put it into his jeans pocket. Then, throwing his duffle onto his shoulder, he called quick goodbyes to Fat Lucas and Beef Stock as he half-ran out the door.

If John hadn't been so hell-bent on getting home as soon as possible, he would have noticed that Fat Lucas and Beef Stock had hung back to talk in private.

* * *

"We should throw a dinner party." John said one evening.

His head was propped up on Bald John's chest as they lay on the leather couch in the living room, watching Gary Linneker recap that afternoon's Arsenal - Spurs match on Match of the Day. A blanket was draped across their shoulders, and empty wine glasses rested on the coffee table in front of them.

Bald John turned off the tv and looked down at John, his fingers running absently through John's hair.

"Really?" he looked sceptical. "Why?"

John laughed.

"Well, for one, because parties are supposed to be fun?"

Bald John shrugged. "I guess."

"Come on, it'll be great! Like a belated house warming meets a posh dinner meets some kind of team bonding… thing. And it might be nice for us to all hang out somewhere other than the Giraffe for once. I don't know if you've noticed, but that place has this smell, I don't know what it is… like…"

"Stale beer and wet carpet?" Bald John supplied.

"That's exactly it! It’s horrible!" John exclaimed, recalling the dank musk of their local pub. "But anyway, not the point."

"The point is you want to have a dinner party."

"Yes!" John loved dinner parties, and he really did think it would be nice for the team to spend some more recreational time together. It had occurred to him in recent weeks that he and Bald John had somewhat retreated into their relationship. They went to the pub less often, and John was starting to feel guilty for not being more social outside of practice. He thought it might be fun to get everyone together. And since they had never had a proper house warming, it seemed like as good a reason as any.

"Alright, that might be nice. Oh!" Bald John perked up, suddenly excited. "I could make that stuffed apple pork I've been wanting to try!"

Again John laughed, and leaned up to give Bald John a light kiss.

* * *

A week later, pre-dinner drinks flowed, and the whole team milled around the kitchen and living room chatting and laughing. John floated from group to group, welcoming people to his home, giving them a short tour, and all in all thoroughly enjoying himself.

In addition to most of the Swoodilypoopers (only Lallana and Leeroy had begged off – Lallana had a cold, and Leeroy had a date. Neither of which were suitable excuses in John's opinion), Patrick, Hannah, and Peter had all made the time to join them. Manager John had been extended an invitation, but begged off, claiming it wasn’t quite worth the flight to England. John supposed that was a suitable excuse.

Cteve and Peter, it turned out, got on like a house on fire, and were drawing everyone in the living room towards them with their animated discussion about some of the recent Premiership matches, and who they thought would get relegated at the end of the season.  
John moved away from their conversation and entered the kitchen to find Bald John busy putting the finishing touches on dinner while Fitz, Patrick, and Pericard sipped their drinks and poked around, investigating the ktichen. In light of their houseguests, John was deeply grateful that he and Bald John had recently put some effort into making the kitchen look a little more presentable. When Bald John had moved in, the kitchen was a basic, functional part of the house with nothing in it but plain wood furniture and mostly empty countertops. Bald John had proclaimed the room utterly devoid of charm and promptly filled it with colour. There was a framed watercolour on the far wall and half a dozen different types of pepper plants and herbs lining the counter tops that Bald John regularly harvested for his newest exploratory cooking. The presence of his friends served to pleasantly remind John how much of a home his house had become since Bald John had moved in.

"Wow, OJ", Patrick's voice cut through John's thoughts, "you have a shockingly random selection of music. I don't think I've heard of any of this!"

John laughed when he saw Patrick standing bemused by John's speakers, clicking through his iPod. John could have talked to Patrick at length about his taste in music, but he somehow felt that his passion might fall on deaf ears. When he had been a kid he'd developed quite a skill with the piano. For a little while he'd even considered becoming a professional pianist, but ultimately he couldn't keep up with his piano lessons and football, so one had to fall by the wayside. His piano quietly grew dust in Liverpool, his skills rusted, and he moved on. But it didn't mean he couldn't still enjoy being whisked away by a collection of Chopin's preludes.

He walked over to where Patrick stood and selected a playlist of more contemporary music for him to peruse. John moved back across the kitchen to stand by Bald John. He looked over Bald John's shoulder with interest as he chopped up a herb that John couldn't identify.

"Can I be of any help?" he asked. He nearly touched Bald John’s lower back, but remembered himself at the last moment, and kept his hands firmly in his trouser pockets. They had company.

"I think I've got it more or less covered in here." Bald John answered, turning to look at John and flashing him a quick smile. "I guess you could set the table?"

John hated setting the table and was generally terrible at it (he could never quite remember what side of the plate things were supposed to go on), but he had offered to help. So he gathered up as much cutlery as he could carry and brought it all out into the living room.

Back when Bald John had moved in, he had brought with him a dining room table so large that it filled most of their living room. Ultimately, they had given up on trying to find a place for it, and bunged it away in their attic storage. It was being put to good use that evening, however. They had needed to clear out most of the living room in order to make room for it and the accompanying set of chairs, but it was the only way they could have hoped to fit everyone at one table. It was this gigantic table that John set up as neatly as he could while Bald John put the finishing touches on their meal.

Finally, when Bald John declared that dinner was ready, the party gathered and packed themselves tightly around the table. And where dinner itself was concerned, Bald John had not been exaggerating the first night after he moved in when he boasted to John about his prowess as a chef. He did indeed serve his apple-stuffed pork, along with a side of corn fresh off the cob – "To honour my American roots" – and handmade chunky chips – "To honour Other John's English ones."

The whole evening was, up to that point, a roaring success.

When dinner had all been consumed and the plates cleared, Peter glanced at his watch and motioned something to Hannah, who had been mid-way through telling a joke to Bald John.

Hannah noticed Peter and rolled her eyes. "Come on, Pete. We could at least stay for pudding!"

Peter smiled apologetically to her while she looked back at him pointedly. John thought they must have been communicating something, but he couldn't guess what.

"Sorry lads," he spoke to the table at large, though he looked especially towards the Johns. "We must be off. We've got a deadline this evening. Our Editor doesn't even know we left the office, but he may cotton on if we don't submit our copy at some point this evening."

The boys laughed as Peter grabbed his coat from off the back of the couch, which had been shoved against the bay window at the front of the living room in order to make room for the dining room table. Peter also fished out Hannah's coat and handed it to her. She accepted it with a quiet thanks. Hannah, John noticed, looked genuinely sad to go. She made brief eye contact with Fat Lucas, and John saw him nod imperceptibly.

"John?" Instinctively John knew she was addressing him and not Bald John. He looked up at her with a smile from his seat at the table. "Walk us out?" she asked with a kind of timidity he had never heard in her voice before.

John stood up immediately. "Yeah, of course."

He felt he must have failed at some kind of unwritten hosting rule. Walking people out… was that normal host behaviour? It sounded about right to John, so he didn't question it further.

Once at the door Peter clapped John jovially on the back, thanked him, and walked outside. John watched, perplexed, as Peter stood at the end of the pavement and waited there, suddenly preoccupied with tying the non-existent laces on his shoes. John didn't have much time to absorb the implications of this behaviour, as Hannah was still standing at the door, looking at him expectantly.

"I had a really nice time," she told him earnestly.

"I'm glad. We should do it again. I still owe you a pudding, after all." John smiled.

"We should," Hannah hesitated. "Or we could just get a drink sometime?"

John – warm with drink, the presence of friends, and the success of the evening – did not think. "Yeah," he replied automatically, thinking only that he would very much enjoying having a drink with Hannah. "I'd like that."

Again he smiled warmly at her, though he noticed too late – far too late – a change in her attitude. Her face split into a dazzling grin. "Well alright then!" she said brightly, finally returning to the chipper upbeat tone of hers that he recognized. "Goodnight, Other John."

Before John could respond, before he could do anything at all, she had moved forward and delicately pressed her lips against his. He knew he should react. He knew he should do something. Anything. But his mind was blank. He just stood there. Realisation dawned at last, and he became horribly aware of the mess he had made. He was terrified of hurting Hannah, and he was equally terrified of hurting Bald John. _Bald John._ John gently began to pull away from Hannah, sickly aware that any pain he was about to cause her was entirely and completely his fault.

But he never got a chance to say anything to her at all.

"Hannah and OJ are finally snogging!"

John nearly jumped out of his skin when Beef Stock's loud proclamation boomed through the hallway. He heard a loud round of applause from the living room.

Hannah chuckled and blushed a deep red. "The boys said you just needed a little encouragement." She smiled at him with the same smile that he used to find infectious. At that moment it made him feel nauseous. "Goodnight John," she said again.

And then she was out the door, down the front steps, and walking off with Peter into the night.

When John closed the door behind her and turned around, it was to find Beef Stock in the hallway, grinning. In John's more petulant moments, he would think that Beef Stock reminded him of a human Oxo cube, with his large ruddy face and square jaw. John walked past him with barely another look. Inside the living room he found most of the team on their feet smiling or laughing. A few of them even clapped him on the back as though he had done something worthy of congratulations. John couldn't shake the feeling of somehow being caught in a trap. He felt tricked or deceived in some way. And he still felt nauseous.

He looked desperately around, but the sick feeling in his stomach got worse when Bald John was nowhere to be seen.

John felt a familiar aggressively friendly punch on his arm.

"Way to be a man, OJ!" Beef Stock said loudly.

Anger flared up in John, replacing the worse, more complicated emotions. John tried to hold on to that new feeling; being angry with his teammates was much easier than being angry with himself.

John rounded on Beef Stock, even though he suspected Beef hadn't been the only person to encourage Hannah to make a move. When John thought about it, he realized Peter had clearly known something about it. And he remembered Fat Lucas' encouraging nod. It must have been some kind of plot they were all in on. Having blatantly ignored him when he said he wasn't interested in Hannah, they decided to try and set them up anyway. His blood boiled, and Beef Stock had his red, beefy face right in front of John. John swung blindly, without even thinking. His fist connected in a satisfying crunch of pain against Beef Stock's jaw. Physical pain, he realized, was even better at dulling his guilt than anger had been.

Beef Stock swore loudly and staggered back.

"Ow! What the _fuck_?” Beef yelled as Cuthbert and Lucas rushed to his side. Neither of them showed any signs of aggression, but looked at John warily.

"Why did you do that?" John asked him, fury still spurring him on.

"Do what?" Beef Stock looked genuinely surprised. "With Hannah? We just thought you were too shy to make the first move, thought you might need a bit of a push."

"We were trying to help." Lucas added.

"I didn't ask for your help."

John didn't care that they had been trying to do the right thing. He didn't care that they weren't to know what a mess they had helped to cause. He also desperately didn't want to think about how much more responsible he himself was for causing the mess in the first place. All he wanted was to be angry.

"I don't get what the problem is." Cteve chimed in, from where he had been standing next to the bookshelves with Ginger. John turned to look at him.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his anger abating slightly.

"I mean, Hannah's funny, loves sports, fancies you, and is really, really fit. Am I missing something? I mean, OJ, why wouldn't you want to shag her?"

John blushed and looked at the floor, fearing any eye contact would give him away.

"Oh God," Beef Stock's voice cut through the living room, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Are you, like, gay or something?"

A few members of the team laughed. John was dismayed to find even Patrick among them. In their defence, it was said like a joke. But also like an insult. The sick feeling in the pit of John's stomach, having been temporarily suppressed in favour of rage, returned with a vengeance. It was the way Beef Stock had said it, the cold disgust with which he spat the word at him that sent John reeling. It would have almost been better if he had used some cruel derogatory comment. As it was, John hated the idea that one of the words he used to define himself could also be used as an insult. More than anything else in the world, John wished that he could stand up to Beef Stock in that moment. _And so what if I am?_ he wanted to ask. _I have nothing to be ashamed of._ But as it was, Beef's words were ice in John's veins, and any bravery he might have had died before making it past his lips. His heart sank, and the shame came anyway, even when he knew he had nothing to be ashamed of.

John drew a small amount of comfort upon noticing that not all his guests were impressed with the sudden turn of events. Fitz Hall and Pericard had remained at the table and both looked as though they didn't think there was anything at all funny about Beef Stock's comment. John made a mental note to pass to them both as much as possible in the next match as way of saying thanks.

But this made him think about his team. His Swoodilypoopers. He loved playing football with all of them and the idea that he might lose it – that his tenuous hold on playing professionally would slip from his grasp – filled him with a fear he had never before experienced. He thought he might endure any amount of torture if it meant he got to keep playing.

So, he raised his eyes from the floor and his relaxed, teasing tone didn't waver.

"Sorry, Beefy." John even managed to force a cocky grin, "Not me. I guess you'll have to find someone else to take you out on Saturday night."

The team laughed a little louder and the mood finally recovered from John's angry outburst.

John hadn't thought it was possible to feel any worse. And then he finally saw him.

Bald John stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, silent and unnoticed. His eyes were locked on John. He could not have said how long Bald John had been standing there, but John suspected it had been a while. He must have retreated to the kitchen following John's humiliation with Hannah, but John assumed he had retuned to the living room when he heard John punch Beef Stock.

His shame knew no bounds.

He began to move towards Bald John, hoping to get a moment alone with him, but Bald John had other ideas.

"Dessert's ready!" He called with a bright smile to the room at large.

Bald John was so good at masking his emotions that it took all of John's concentration to recognize the signs of misery and betrayal in his face. A tiny twitch in his jaw, and a minute flash in his eyes. That was it. As the team resumed their seats at the table, Bald John smiled and laughed with them while he served the Eton Mess.

"I made it just for you, Sir." Bald John joked when he put it in front of Cuthbert, the only Eton alumnus in Swoodilypooper history. But when it came to serving John, Bald John placed his dessert in front of him coolly and without a word.

Looking down at his dessert, John recalled earlier that day, when Bald John had been downstairs and dressed by mid-morning in order to begin preparing the meringue. John had floated into the kitchen, seen a large bowl of berries on the counter and popped a raspberry in his mouth with a flourish. Bald John had noticed and whacked him playfully on the back of his hand with the whisk he had been using to beat the egg whites. A bit of half-whipped egg was left behind on John's hand. John had looked at him indignantly.

Bald John had just smiled impishly and returned to preparing his dessert.

"Well, that's one way to say good morning" John had said with mock sulkiness.

Bald John had promptly dropped his whisk in the bowl of egg whites, spun around and pulled John into a gratuitously passionate kiss. One arm wrapped firmly around John’s lower back, and held him tight against Bald John’s chest. When Bald John finally released him, leaving John flushed and breathless, he immediately turned back around and resumed whipping the eggs.

"Good morning," he had said over his shoulder with an intimate smile that John would never tire of.

The memory and the sight of the fully prepared Eton Mess in front of him made John want to cry.

His dessert was left untouched as John allowed the conversation at the table to wash over him. He absorbed very little and became so disengaged that eventually his teammates stopped even attempting to direct conversation his way.

"So, assuming John can get over himself and get it together with Hannah, that makes a successful team match-making!" Ginger Rampage was saying. John was trying very hard to ignore him.

"What about you, Bald John?" Lucas said, turning to him. "I think it might be your turn!"

This got John's attention. His eyes shot up from the table and found Bald John. But Bald John wasn't looking at him. He was smiling sadly at Fat Lucas.

"Thanks, Luke, but I actually just ended a pretty serious relationship. I'm taking a bit of a break from dating."

At this his eyes finally met John's, cold and dispassionate. He's talking about Lindsay. Please God let him be talking about Lindsay. John honestly wasn't sure. He couldn't breathe, and his nausea was back in full force. Everything finally threatened to crash over him, and he feared that he really might throw up right on Bald John's massive dinner table.

"Excuse me," he muttered as he shot from his chair and half-ran up the stairs.

He staggered into the bathroom and collapsed against the cool tiled floor, breathing heavily. He wasn't sick, but he stayed in the bathroom anyway; the dull quiet of the small room offered a welcome relief to the party downstairs. John wanted to cry, but he wasn't able to. He thought maybe he was beyond tears, into a zone of shame, guilt, and self-hatred so terrible that tears couldn't do it justice.

Minutes passed. At one point John thought he heard someone coming upstairs, but whoever it was quickly retreated. John knew he should go downstairs, but he couldn't. He was tired, and he couldn't bear the crowded living room. He didn't want to look at any of them: Beef Stock and his taunting, Pericard and his pity, Cteve and his easy laughs. Worst of all, he didn't think he could ever meet Bald John's eyes again. He was not supposed to be this person. He was supposed to be at least as generous and supportive as he knew Bald John was with him. The more he thought about it, the worse he felt. Eventually, perhaps in a subconscious effort to stop thinking, he fell asleep with his head resting against the cupboards under the sink.

John was pulled back into consciousness by the sound of a light tapping against the bathroom door.

"John?" Bald John's subdued tone floated through the door.

Stiffly, John rose. He looked out the frosted bathroom window and was surprised to see that the sky had darkened. With a certain amount of trepidation, he opened the door to find Bald John facing him, looking more exhausted than John had ever seen him.

"Hey," he said quietly. He noticed the silence from downstairs. "Is everyone gone?"

Bald John nodded, closing his eyes in his exhaustion.

"Yes. The last of them just left."

"Sorry. I should have come down." That was the least of the things John had to apologize for, but he figured it was a good start.

"It's fine," Bald John opened his eyes again, but the pain in them made John wish he had kept them closed. "I told them you were on the phone with your sister. Some family emergency, so you might want to make something up if anyone asks."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Bald John replied, bitterly dismissive.

John's heart sank low in his chest. He was ashamed for so many things, he was so tired, and all he wanted to do was crawl into bed, preferably with Bald John in his arms. But he feared that he might never be able to do that again.

"We need to talk." Bald John said.

John didn't disagree. They walked in silence into John's bedroom. He sat down on his bed and heard Bald John shut the door with a little more force than was strictly necessary. Neither of them moved. John just sat there, looking at Bald John, waiting for him to speak. For his part, Bald John was like a coiled spring standing by the door, looking about ready to bolt out of the room as soon as he was able.

Finally, John could stand it no longer.

"We have a problem." he said, despite the fact that he knew Bald John had a pet peeve about redundant statements.

"Yes."

"I shouldn't have flirted with Hannah."

"No."

"I wasn't thinking! It honestly didn't even occur to me that –"

"No." Bald John interrupted, his eyes blazing in anger. "That's not true. You must have known how it appeared to other people. Because even I commented on it, remember? You knew everyone, even Hannah, would make assumptions. You let them."

John had no answer to this. Maybe it was true. It had of course occurred to him that people thought there was something between him and Hannah. And he hadn't stopped flirting with her all the same. He hadn't even tried to explain to Hannah that there was nothing going on. Worse still, he thought that maybe he hadn't done any of those things because it was easier for people to believe he was in a relationship with Hannah. It was safer. And maybe, after everything, John was just a coward. He lay back on the bed, his legs dangling off the side.

Silence stretched between the two of them once more.

"What would you have me do instead?" he asked Bald John at last.

Bald John sighed. "I don't know."

"Should we tell people about us?"

"I don't know."

"And what about Hannah?"

" _I don't know_ , John!"

More silence.

"I'm really sorry, you know. About Hannah, and what I said to Beef. I'm so, so sorry." John said at last, his voice slow with exhaustion and misery.

"I know." Finally, Bald John moved from his position next to the door and sat down beside John on the bed. He slowly reached out and covered John's left hand with his right.

"I'm sorry too. For what I said to Fat Lucas during dessert. I didn't mean it."

"You were angry," John replied simply, sitting up to join Bald John at the end of the bed. "You had every right to be."

"Yes, I was angry. But I do understand, John." Bald John paused and took a shuddering breath. "I'm scared too, you know." His voice was so small, so full of shame, that it broke John's heart clean in two. They really were quite the pair of cowards.

John just gripped Bald John's hand and they sat, engulfed once more in silence. After minutes in this way, Bald John let out a dry chuckle. "I guess you're just too good looking for your own good, Bennett."

John smiled wryly. "We still need to figure all this out." he persisted earnestly.

"Yes," Bald John agreed, all humour fading from his voice, "and we will. But not tonight."

Without any further discussion they fell back on the soft pillows of John's bed, choosing just that once to defer their problems to another day.

* * *

Neither of the Johns slept well that night. So, early the following morning they sat facing each other at the small kitchen table. Armed with full mugs of coffee, they finally talked through their considerable issues.

A few of these were dispatched with easily. They weren't going to break up. That much they could agree upon off the bat. They also weren't going to come out to their team. After the disastrous dinner party from the night before, neither of them were prepared to cope with the inevitable fallout of an announcement like theirs. Besides which, after John's definitive declaration that he most certainly was not gay, it seemed that admitting the truth the next day was particularly problematic. In the end, both of them agreed that it was preferable to suffer in silence at this particular point in their careers rather than risk being ostracized from the team or being blacklisted from professional football in general. It was not ideal, allowing themselves to live half in lies, but since they weren't willing face the alternatives, it was all they had.

When it came to Hannah, however, the Johns were divided. They both agreed that something needed to be done and that John certainly couldn't go for a drink with her until the platonic nature of their relationship had been firmly established. Exactly how to go about explaining this to Hannah, however, proved to be a matter of contention.

"…I don't see what the problem is!" John said in frustration after they had been debating the situation for nearly half an hour. He had moved away from the kitchen table and began to make some food, if for no other reason than to give himself something to do with his hands. He pulled himself onto the kitchen counter and sat next to the toaster, waiting for his bread to cook.

"You don't?" Bald John asked with a dry incredulity that he had a tendency to fall into when he was tired or stressed.

Bald John remained at the kitchen table, sipping his coffee while he watched John slip back off the counter and gather a plate, butter, and jam from around the small kitchen. A sharp metallic click filled the silence between them. John's toast leapt an inch in the air and fell back into their respective slots. He gathered his food and turned his back to Bald John while he clattered around preparing his breakfast. Eventually, he returned to the table with jam dripping over the side of his toast onto the pristine white of his porcelain plate.

"I understand that it's problematic, but I don't think I have much of a choice at this point." John finally replied.

"It just seems way too risky. I mean, she works for the press after all." Bald John countered.

"I know, but she deserves to know the truth." John sighed and picked at the edges of the food in front of him. "I just… I can't lie to her. She deserves better."

John looked up and met his partner's eyes, begging him to understand. Even the half-lie of omitting the truth to his teammates was going to be a lot for John to bear. He sometimes thought he should have been used to it given the number of years he had been quietly closeted in Liverpool. But he wasn't sure it was possible to become accustomed to such a lifestyle. It felt like a permanent weight on his chest. It tightened every time he had to avoid an honest answer and it forced him to constantly check himself - his appearance, his behaviour, his choice of words - to make sure he was giving nothing about himself away. It suffocated him on a daily basis.

But John could bear it - he would have to bear it - for the sake of his and Bald John's personal ambitions. It was different with Hannah. She had unwittingly and completely innocently fallen in the crossfire. And it was John's fault. He owed her the truth.

John could see in Bald John's eyes that he didn't quite understand why John felt so strongly about it. It reminded him that Bald John was still new to the closet. He didn't yet understand how suffocating it would be, how he would grasp for any opportunity to open up to the people he cared about. He didn't understand yet, but he would in time. The thought made John painfully sad.

At length Bald John sighed, his eyes softened, he smiled, and John remembered why all the secrets and lies were worth it.

"Alright," Bald John conceded, "it's up to you how you want to explain things to Hannah. She's your friend after all, and you have every right to tell her the truth if that's what you think is best."

"Thanks," John smiled. He had no way of knowing how Hannah would react to the news, but she was just about his only friend and he was sure that actively lying to her would be an unforgivable betrayal. "I'll meet with her later today and tell her in person."

John moved to get up from the table, thinking their issues had been sorted, when Bald John reached out and placed his hand over John's, calling him back down to his seat.

"There's one more thing," he said. John thought he heard a hint of trepidation in Bald John's tone.

"What is it?"

Bald John paused, and allowed his thumb to stroke the back of John's hand.

"I think we need to tell Coach about us. It affects him if we're in a relationship. It's… a conflict of interest. It might impact how he wants to play us."

"But you heard Patrick at the party, he was laughing along with everyone else." John objected. He liked Patrick, but he wasn't sure how the young Irishman would react to their sexuality. A sinking feeling in his gut told him it wasn't a good idea to tell him.

"I don't mean Patrick," Bald John replied, pulling John from his thoughts, "I mean John."

John paused to consider this.

He didn't know Manager John particularly well. The man popped by every month or so to check up on the team, coach them through a couple of matches, join everyone in a drink, and fill them all in on the strategy for the rest of the season. He was kind, enthusiastic, and generally John was impressed with his managerial ability. He clearly cared a great deal about the team and their prospects. And he was ambitious in a way that John admired. He was also busy and still spent the majority of his time with his family in America. He would certainly not have been high on the list of people that John felt the need to come out to. But the more he considered it, the more John realized that Bald John was right. They would of course not let their personal relationship interfere with their ability to do their jobs, but it was definitely relevant. It reminded him of how people in office jobs have to register their relationship with the human resources department. Did they owe the same responsibility to their boss? He thought maybe they did.

"Okay," he agreed at last. "I'll go meet Hannah for coffee and have 'the talk' with her. And then this afternoon we can call Manager John. Plan?"

Bald John nodded. "Plan."

* * *

Hannah was waiting for John at the entrance to the park when he jogged up just a couple hours after getting of the phone with her. John had spent the remainder of his morning quietly panicking about the conversation they were about to have.

Hannah greeted John with a warm – though not untoward – hug and they spent a few minutes walking around the park, enjoying the unseasonably warm February.

"So are you excited about tomorrow's match? It's kind of a big deal." Hannah said after some prolonged minutes of silence.

It took John a minute to realize what she was talking about. If they won their match the following day, then they would claim the top spot on the league table. And if they could then hold onto it they would be guaranteed a promotion to League One by the end of the season. John had been very excited for the match two days ago, but the events of the intervening days had completely driven it from his mind. For the first time in a while he felt the exhilaration of competition and pride flare back up in him.

"Yeah," John managed a genuine smile. "Hopefully we can manage it."

"Even if you don't, there's no way you won't move up. Honestly, I don't think the Swoodilypoopers have played this well in the history of the club. I really think you could make it to the Premiership, you know?"

John just shrugged. Although he didn't like admitting it, he was starting to believe it too. Even more appealing was the idea of playing in the Premiership with Bald John and the rest of the Swoodilypoopers at his side. John's desire to see it come true was so overwhelming that he didn't like to think about it too often for fear it might never come to pass.

"You know," Hannah continued, her tone switching back to one of conspiratorial excitement, "I've also been hearing some rumours. About you and Bald John."

That got John's attention. His eyes snapped up to her, fear suddenly coursing through him like a poison.

"What rumours?" John tried to contain his alarm and calm his voice. From the look on Hannah's face he had only been mildly successful.

"About the offers from Burnley and Newcastle. Word is they're having a bidding war to acquire the two of you. Some very generous offers on the table from what my sources tell me."

John let out a breath and chuckled with relief.

"I've heard. They're wasting their time, though."

A week ago Manager John had sat down with the Johns to tell them about the offers he'd been receiving. Immediately, both players told him without a shadow of a doubt that they weren't interested. They had discussed it together some days prior when the rumours had begun to circulate that a few clubs were interested in acquiring them. Bald John had said the same thing to John days earlier that he then said to Manager John.

"You're our Coach. This is our team."

Bald John had leaned back in his chair after his short declaration, indicating that there was nothing more to be said on the matter.

Manager John had grinned like a child after that, clapped them both on the shoulder, and insisted on taking the whole team out for a drink. He proceeded to spend most of the evening muttering blithely about team heart and loyalty.

John relayed this story to Hannah, who laughed.

"Manager John has been fighting them off with a croquet mallet ever since. They'll get the hint soon enough."

"Well," Hannah said with that smile of hers that John loved so much, "I'm not exactly impartial, but I'm certainly glad you're staying."

She reached out and laced her fingers through John's. The action made him tense and reminded him forcefully that he had a job to do. He slipped his hand from hers in order to indicate toward one of the wooden park benches lining the dirt path.

"Why don't we take a seat for a bit?" He led her towards the bench before she even had a chance to respond.

They sat down awkwardly next to each other. John lifted one foot to rest on the bench. He moved the foot back down. He crossed his legs. He uncrossed them. Giving up on finding a comfortable position, he began to pick at a splinter of wood on the backrest between him and Hannah.

It was then that he noticed a brass plate in-between them. It informed him that the bench was dedicated to the memory of Charles A. Eccles (1917-2001), from his loving wife of 62 years. The idea of being married to someone for 62 years made John feel suddenly small. He could not conceive of spending a whole lifetime with another person. Then he thought about Bald John. Weird, wonderful, mysterious, dedicated, passionate, loyal Bald John. And he thought 62 years wouldn't be long enough.

"I can't go out with you, Hannah." John said, still gazing at the plaque on the side of the bench. He looked up to find her eyes trained on him. "I'm sorry."

Hannah's smile fell gradually as she studied his expression. "Okay," she said slowly, sounding more confused than upset. "Why not?"

John hesitated. The fear was suddenly back and creeping through his veins. "Anything I say is strictly off the record, right?"

Again a look of confusion flashed across Hannah's face. But amongst her confusion, there was a glint in her eyes. John recognized the unmistakable intrigue that accompanies the desire to learn a secret. “Of course," she replied quickly.

John tried to remember how to breathe. He adjusted himself of the bench they were sharing so he might better be able to look at her. "I…" Saying the words was suddenly much harder than he had expected. His fear was mounting and he couldn't breathe properly. What if she was disgusted? What if she was angry? He had given her every reason to hate him. What if she never wanted to see him again?

"John, what's up?" Hannah's concerned voice cut through his anxiety.

In, out. Breathe. _Why is this so hard?_

This time felt acutely different to John than any of the previous times he had come out to friends and family. He had never really needed to come out to his parents. After Ashley found out, John suspected that she had softened the ground for his parents so much that they ended up asking him whether or not he was gay before he had managed to work up the courage to tell them. With his few friends growing up it had been a bit more challenging, but they were never particularly surprised, because that had been back in the days before he started pursuing football professionally, when he hadn't felt as strong a need to mask his sexuality from the people closest to him. Then there had been Bald John. That had been frightening, but for completely different reasons. By the time he had confessed the truth that December evening, John was reasonably sure that his feeling would be reciprocated. But with Hannah… he wanted to trust that she would be okay with it, but he still had so much to apologize for, and he was so afraid that his apologies and explanations wouldn't be enough.

This fear paralyzed him and hindered his ability to be direct with her. "I can't go out with you because I'm already seeing someone." John said. It was true, at least, though not exactly to the point.

"Oh!" Hannah let out a small exclamation of surprise. "I'm sorry, I had no idea! …Wait, why did I have no idea? I mean, we've known each other for months. How could you have failed to mention that you have a girlfriend?" There was a growing edge of irritation in her voice that John certainly couldn't blame her for.

"I don't– " again John had to remind himself to breathe. "I don't have a girlfriend."

Hannah looked positively horrified at this.

"Oh God, don't tell me you're married!"

"I'm not married."

"But you just said…" she frowned at him in confusion.

"I said I was seeing someone…. I didn't say I was seeing a woman."

He knew it probably wasn't fair to play with his words, but it was easier, somehow, to lead her to the answer than to say it out loud.

Sure enough, the dawning comprehension spread across her face. John waited as a long silence stretched between them while Hannah processed what she had just learned. Her expression shifted so many times that John couldn't begin to guess what she was thinking. He spied shock, hurt, understanding, a little anger… and something else. Pity? Revulsion? John wasn't sure.

He thought he might burst as the silence stretched into minutes. He was seconds away from breaking the silence himself when something in Hannah finally shifted and she reached out a hand to him.

"Oh John..." she choked slightly on her words, her voice filled with a quiet sorrow that John hadn't been expecting. "I am so sorry."

"You're sorry? I'm the one who should be apologizing, Han. I swear I didn't mean to lead you on, I just thought… I don't know what I thought. I was so stupid. I'm really sorry."

Hannah gave John a small, tired smile. "Thanks, but I wasn't apologizing. I was expressing sympathy. I don't envy you the decisions you have to make. The lies you must have to tell."

It was sadness he had seen in her expression. She felt sad for him. John supposed it was at least preferable to anger or disgust.

"You're not mad, then?" He didn't want to push her, but he needed to know that he hadn't ruined their friendship beyond repair.

Hannah considered his question for longer than he would have liked. "I'm not mad…" she said finally, "but I wish you had told me sooner. We're friends, John, and you must have known that I thought… you must have known how… things… seemed to me."

"Yes," John was forced to admit, "and I have no defence. I should have told you before things got out of hand. If it makes you feel any better, you're kind of the first person we've told. I mean, second, I guess, after my sister, but still."

John noticed her perk up suddenly as an eager glint in her eyes replaced the sorrow from moments before. "We?" She asked pointedly. "Who is this person you're seeing?"

She was nearly laughing with excitement, and John couldn't help but smile. Pleasure spread through him like a warm mug of tea. Here was Hannah, laughing, gossiping, and forgiving him. He felt weak with relief.

When John didn't immediately answer her question, her intrigue mounted considerably.

"Is… he… someone I know?" Again John didn't answer, but his conspiratorial smile gave him away. "Oh my God! It must be a Swoodiplypooper, then! Because OJ, let's be honest, you don't know anyone else."

"Oh nice, Han, thanks!" John laughed, unable to maintain his mock indignation.

"That's not a denial!" Hannah was half-yelling with triumphant glee. "Come on, John, I'm dying here. You owe it to me to tell me!"

"Alright, alright," John motioned for her to keep her voice down. "Yes, fine. It's a Swoodilypooper." He glanced around the park to check they weren't in earshot of anyone else. "It's Bald John."

Hannah's face froze comically in a look of open shock. She recovered quickly, however, and began considering this new revelation. "Seriously? I mean, yeah, I guess that makes sense. You two have always been a little… intimate. I just assumed it was the product of being teammates. But you always have worked insanely well together. It's kind of intense to watch, actually. You're like two halves that make one whole. In more ways than one, eh?" Hannah chuckled, still visibly dazed from the amount of information John had dropped on her.

"Yeah," he smiled at her. "I guess we are."

A cloud covered the sun and a shiver of cold ran through the air. This seemed to shake Hannah from her reverie, so together they both stood back up and began making their way out of the park. The sky was growing rapidly darker, and John thought he would be lucky to get back home before the rain started. Life in England, he mused. It could be bright with sun one moment and bucketing with rain the next. He liked it though, the unpredictability. It kept him guessing.

When John arrived home later that afternoon it was to find Bald John struggling to push the dining room table from their party the night before up the ladder into the attic. John ran to give him a hand and catch him up on his talk with Hannah.

"It went about as well as I could have hoped, to be honest. She was mostly sad." He said as they maneuvered the table into the back corner of the attic. They didn't feel much of a need to make it easily accessible – they had no interest in having another dinner party anytime soon.

"Well, who wouldn't be?" Bald John replied, panting slightly from the heavy lifting, "missing out on a chance to get with you."

Bald John smiled impishly at him and John laughed in spite of himself.

"Not that kind of sad," he replied, his humour dying a little. "It was more like she was sad for me. For us. For everything we have to go through."

Bald John's smile faltered and he said nothing in reply.

Quietly, they finished putting away the dining set and exited the attic, closing the panel in their ceiling behind them. Without a word Bald John slipped his hand into John's – the immediate warm rush that John felt was such a welcome change from when Hannah had done the same thing earlier that day – and they walked back downstairs together.

They walked right through the living room and into the kitchen, sitting down side-by-side at the small table. Bald John pulled his mobile from his pocket.

"Just one more thing," he said.

John nodded mutely. Coming out to Hannah had been difficult enough and he still had no interest whatsoever in coming out to his boss. But Bald John was right that they needed to tell him.

"Can you…" John began, causing Bald John to pause and look up from trying to locate Manager John's contact information on his phone. "Can you take the reins on this one? I just… you know him better. You know, you're like kindred spirits or… something."

Bald John chuckled at this.

"Why, because we have the same name?"

John shrugged.

"And you're both American. Besides, he likes you better." John knew he sounded petty, but he was too tired to care.

Bald John, it seemed, could also recognize the exhaustion in John's tone. So rather than arguing he simply put a reassuring hand on John's knee.

"Sure," he said. "I'll take the reins."

Bald John dialed the number and placed the phone face-up on the table while the ringing filled the silence between them.

The third ring was cut off mid-way by the sound of Manager John fumbling with his mobile phone.

"John Green." Manager John's lilting, almost sing-song, American accent came through the speakerphone.

"John?" Bald John replied, "It's me and Other John. Is this a bad time?"

The heard the sound of Manger John repositioning the phone against his ear.

"No, I was just working on the line-up for tomorrow's match. It's going to be a big one for us, guys, I think we can nail down the top spot for the rest of the season if we keep the focus we've had in the last few months. What do you need?"

Bald John hesitated. John felt his hand shake slightly from where it was still resting on John's knee.

"Coach, we have something we wanted to talk to you about," John said, giving Bald John a moment to collect himself.

There was a pause from the other side of the phone.

"You've decided to accept the offers from Newcastle, haven't you?" Manager John's voice was full of a resigned sadness, as though he had been expecting as much.

The fact that Manager John would jump to such a conclusion was enough to shake Bald John from his reverie.

"What? No," he reassured, "Coach, I thought we'd been clear. We're Swoodilypoopers. We'll go to the Premiership and we'll do it as Swoodilypoopers." The pressure on John's knee increased as Bald John tensed a little with his next sentence. "And if we ever leave, it will be because you have decided you don't want us on your team anymore. "

They heard Manager John breathe a sigh of relief from his office across the Atlantic.

"Well then you've got some pretty great job security, boys."

"Thank, Coach." Bald John replied. But there was something in his voice that sounded strained.

When John looked up, he saw that Bald John's eyes were shining with a new kind of fear, and something that John had not considered suddenly pushed itself to the forefront of his mind. What if Manager John did not want two gay footballers on his team? Would they be sold to Newcastle or Burnley? Or would Manager John dismiss them outright, and warn other managers against purchasing them? Because what manager in their right mind would want to deal with the family drama of two cohabiting strikers on their team? Or worst of all, what if he sold one of them? The idea made John feel sick, so he pushed it from his mind and focused on the task at hand.

"So, what is it you wanted to talk about?" Manager John asked.

Bald John took a breath, and just like that, he plunged in.

"Coach, John and I have entered into a relationship, and we thought it was our duty as your employees to make you aware of it."

"Entered into a relationship with whom?" Manager John asked, clearly confused.

"With each other." Bald John clarified. Again the pressure on John's knee intensified.

"…Oh."

There was no mistaking his tone; Manager John was annoyed. Annoyed at least, disgusted at worst.

"Well," he continued, "I can't say I'm wild about the idea."

"About the idea of gay footballers on your team?" There was a bite of aggression in Bald John's voice that John had never heard before. He kind of liked it.

"No!" Manager John amended quickly, "Honestly, I think it's about time footballers started coming out. I'm just not wild about the idea of a couple on my team. Like, what if you break up? What am I supposed to do then?"

"We're not going to break up." John replied firmly, irritated by the suggestion.

"Can you promise me that?" Manager John argued. "Because it's not like people get into a relationship with the intention of breaking up. No one ever expects to break up, these things just happen."

"Coach," Bald John cut in, his voice returning to its usual calm rationality, "of course we won't make promises we can't keep. But think about it this way: we're telling you about us. We haven't told the rest of the team, we've barely told our own families, but we're telling you because we thought we owed you the courtesy. Would we do that if this was some kind of fling or affair? We are in a relationship, and we're not planning on breaking up any time soon."

A silence followed Bald John's small speech.

"So…" Manager John's disembodied voice filled their kitchen once again, "you're really serious? This really isn't some kind of wind up? You're really in a secret relationship?"

"Yes, we're serious. And on that note, we would appreciate it if you wouldn't tell the rest of the team about us. We're… not quite ready to take that step." Bald John replied.

Another silence.

"Okay." Manager John said at last. "I really appreciate you guys telling me, I get how big a step this must be for you, and I'm actually a little proud. Though I want to be clear about something: I don't think you should keep this kind of thing secret, especially from your teammates. But that's not my decision to make. Equally, you're not teenagers, I'm not your dad and it isn't up to me whether you decide to get together. Just, don't let it affect our chances for next season, understand?"

Bald John let out a short laugh of relief.

"Understood, Coach."

"Understood, Coach." John repeated.

"Seriously, then? You're really together?" Manager John still seemed to be having trouble processing their confession. "When did this happen?"

"Well," John began, "you remember how we went to the Giraffe's Head for that Christmas dinner?"

Manager John burst out laughing before John had a chance to continue.

"You hooked up at the Christmas dinner! Oh God, you had some kind of terrible drunken encounter in the bathroom of the bar or something equally sordid, didn't you?"

"What? No!" Bald John sounded outraged, which only made Manager John laugh harder.

Before either of them had a chance to explain the story in full, Manager John's wife entered his office and he was pulled away from the phone.

"Sorry boys, you can tell me all about it later. I'll send Patrick my tactical plans for the match tomorrow morning. Good luck!"

And just like that he hung up.

"I can't believe you started that story with 'remember the Christmas party at the Giraffe's Head?'" Bald John leaned into him, resting his head on John's shoulder. "You know we're never living that down. He's going to be convinced we got together after some drunken fumbling in a bar."

John just laughed. All things considered, he didn't think it mattered too much if Manager John never knew the whole story. And in the wake of successfully coming out to both Hannah and Manager John, with minimal damage and absolutely no loss of limb, he couldn't be anything but giddy with relief.

* * *

The Johns walked together into the locker room for their match the following day with a certain amount of shared trepidation. John stepped through first, and as he had expected, Beef Stock’s eye immediately caught his. If John were to judge from the venomous expression on Beef Stock’s face, he had not yet forgiven John for sucker punching him in the face. Timid and uncomfortable, John entered the room and crossed slowly to his locker. He felt rather than saw Bald John doing the same behind him. They all began kitting up in a cold, awkward silence.

The air shifted suddenly when Leeroy Williamson crashed through the changing room doors. The racket of his entrance echoed through the silent room. Seemingly oblivious to the tension in the small room, he sauntered over to the iPod speakers on one of the polished wooden benches and flicked a few switches. The speakers burst to life and began blasting notes from an obnoxious pop song that John didn’t recognize. Banging his head to the beat of the music, Leeroy began to dance around the room towards his own locker.

“Guys!” he addressed the room at large in a voice loud enough to be heard over the music, “just wait until you hear about the night I had last Friday!”

Leeroy proceeded to tell them all about the apparently horrendous date he had been on while the rest of them were at the Johns’ dinner party.

“This girl, I kid you not, had never seen a football match in her life!” Leeroy said as he stripped down and pulled on his Swoodilypoopers jersey. “Half the way through dinner she asked me how many tries I scored in the last performance! I nearly ran away and left her when I went to take a leak!”

His thick American accent echoed across the concrete walls of the locker room. John found it remarkably difficult to maintain a cold and distant silence in the wake of all the noise he was making.

The iPod switched abruptly to a club song that John had definitely heard before, but couldn’t have named for the life of him. Leeroy cut off his story when the music changed and began dancing in earnest, gyrating through the changing room like the only man on the dance floor of a club at closing time. In what appeared to be a fit of pre-match nerves and adrenaline, Leeroy pulled Cteve into dancing with him. Cteve took up the challenge and joined in with aplomb. When Cuthbert launched into a terribly posh interpretation of hip hop dancing, the whole locker room dissolved into laughter while the team finished getting ready for their match.

John felt considerably more relaxed than he had mere minutes before as he laughed with his team. He and Beef Stock looked at each other, both with smiles still on their faces. Just like that, any unpleasantness that might have been lingering in the air between them melted away and was, at least temporarily, forgotten.

He didn’t know whether or not Leeroy had been told about what happened at the dinner party – certainly he gave no sign of it – but John suspected that his antics had been more deliberate than they appeared. This suspicion was strengthened when John caught his eye as they were preparing to walk down the tunnel. Leeroy’s face was perfectly calm; all previous merriment had vanished. Rather, he gave John a small nod and a sober smile, and John understood that Leeroy had been doing him a favour. John would dearly have loved to question Leeroy and find out what he had heard about his altercation with Beef Stock, but they were through the tunnel and on the pitch before John had a chance. The roar of the home crowd engulfed him, and everything else felt insignificant.

* * *

They won their match and claimed the top of the League table. They also won the following three matches over the next fortnight, two away and one more at home. John’s euphoria was so great that even keeping his relationship a secret couldn’t dampen his spirits. Indeed, where Bald John was concerned, the two of them carried on with relative ease. Of course for them even relative ease was not without its problems. To try and cope with some of these potential problems, they decided to establish a number of ground rules for compartmentalizing their working and romantic relationships.

First and foremost, Bald John insisted that they not bring their domestic relationship onto the pitch with them. John certainly agreed with this in principle – he wasn’t allowed to withhold passes if Bald John had stolen the covers the night before, that kind of thing. To Bald John’s mind, however, this rule also included no physical contact within a 50-foot radius of County Ground. On this point they had debated for some time; John was determined to talk him down as much as possible. Ultimately, they agreed that goal celebrations were exempt from this rule. Their hugs had become something of a tradition, so John managed to convince Bald John that to cease and desist entirely would draw suspicion. John pushed his luck, however, when he tried to argue that fooling around in the locker room after the rest of the team had left should be allowed. On this Bald John remained resolute, and John’s protestations fell on deaf ears until he finally, albeit reluctantly, agreed.

* * *

Two and a half weeks after their disastrous dinner party, John’s supposed relationship with Hannah was still a topic of much interest among the Swoodilypoopers. This came to a head one afternoon following a morning match against Milton Keynes (they secured a 2-0 victory without a great deal of difficulty), when John had to beg off an afternoon trip to the pub because he had promised to meet Hannah for coffee.

This news was met with a flurry of excitement among the rest of the team.

“Have a good time,” Lallana said as he walked past. His tone was drenched in suggestive humour, as though he suspected John would have a very good time.

“Finally getting in there, eh, OJ?” Fat Lucas asked.

In general the team had seemed a little reluctant to ask him about his relationship with Hannah following his reaction to the events of the dinner party, but it was clear they still had an inexplicably strong interest in his love life.

John shrugged, “it’s just coffee.”

“Yeah,” Lucas replied, “but coffee is some kind of girl-code, isn’t it?”

“How should I know?” John asked, chuckling in spite of himself. On this point he did feel particularly unqualified to judge.

“Enjoy your coffee,” Bald John breezed past, his hand just barely brushing John’s arm.

“Thank you, Bald John,” John replied, keeping his tone as formal as possible while fighting the urge to laugh.

“Please,” Cteve said to Bald John as they walked out the door, “it’s clearly not just coffee.”

John sighed. He knew their teasing was meant to be harmless, but he wished he could think of a way to convince them to leave off.

He met Hannah a few minutes later at their favourite coffee shop, The Stone Pipe Café. The café was directly across the street from the offices of the Swindon Town Gazette, so it had become a staple choice for lunch when Hannah was working. The café was tiny, making it almost impossible to find a table, but the coffee was excellent and it was the only café in Swindon that wasn’t owned by Starbucks. The décor felt like the owners had been to a car boot sale in the mid-90s and bought any random pieces of furniture, posters and lights they could find. Nothing quite matched, the couches were moth-eaten, and most of the tables wobbled. Tea stains coloured every surface, and a set of Christmas lights were being used for ambient lighting. Ramshackle as it was, John loved it.

He walked in the door of the Stone Pipe to find Hannah already sitting on a rust-red corduroy couch tucked in the back corner. Her shoes lay in a heap on the floor, and her feet were tucked up under her body. She was sipping from a chipped polka-dotted mug and waved when she saw him walking towards her.

“Hello lover,” she said with her familiar smile, “join me for a drink?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” John replied, dropping his duffel bag next to the couch. He went off to the counter and returned a few minutes later carrying his own coffee. John set the mug – white, with a faded picture of Winnie the Pooh on one side – on the table and crashed down into the small couch beside her.

“Congrats on the match, by the way,” Hannah said once John had settled into his seat, “I could only stay for the first half, but Pete told me you secured victory,”

“Thanks.” John shrugged. He hadn’t scored. Any match during which he didn’t score felt like a bit of a disappointment. “How’s the photojournalism biz?”

“Oh, fine,” Hannah replied vaguely.

John was a little taken aback by her monosyllabic answer; there were times when that question caused her to launch into hour-long anecdotes about the latest drama in her office. She clearly had little interest in discussing her work that day. Rather, she pulled herself forward on the couch so that their heads were close together.

“Listen, John, I’ve been getting… questions.”

“What do you mean?” John asked warily. Perhaps our closet door isn’t as tightly sealed as we think it is?

“About us.”

John sighed a breath of relief. “Oh yeah, me too. It’s not a big deal.” John wished he could confess to Hannah how much their teasing bothered him, but since he was responsible for the mess they had landed in, he didn’t want to burden her with more of his problems.

“Really?” Hannah seemed perplexed. “Because I was thinking we should probably do something about it.”

“Like what?” The idea of ‘doing something’ about the team’s bizarre penchant for gossip had never occurred to him.

“Well, it seems like a pretty good way to…” Hannah’s voice dropped in volume to the point that she was almost whispering, “…you know… cement your heterosexuality in the eyes of your team.”

At this John laughed. Cementing his heterosexuality seemed like a hilariously impossible task. “What did you have in mind?” he asked.

Hannah, it turned out, was quite serious. Keen to take protecting the Johns’ secret into her own hands, she wanted to spread a rumour that she and John had gone out for a while but had ultimately called it off, deciding they were better off as friends.

“I think it could work, John. It would have the desired effect of making people stay off your back about your love life. It would also have the added bonus of allowing me to maintain the high ground, because honestly OJ, I think I’m due a little high ground on account of the fact that you led me on for months.”

Hannah finished explaining her idea and grinned at him expectantly. She seemed to enjoy being able to bring up his behaviour over the past months when she wanted a little extra ammunition. This should have annoyed him, but he found it oddly endearing. At least, it was much better than having her angry with him about it.

When it came to her plan, John understood her reasoning, but was far from convinced. “I’m just sick of lying to the team in the first place, Han. I don’t want even more lies to keep track of!” He took another sip from his mug and sank back a little into his armchair.

“I know, but don’t worry,” Hannah persisted, “we’ve broken up now, so it’s not like you need to keep track of our complicated romantic history together. Besides, it’s really better this way. If you leave it alone, the boys will never stop harassing you to get with me. As teams go, they’re a horrendous bunch of gossips, the lot of them.”

“There’s no way I can get away with just not talking about my personal life?” he asked her, though he thought he already knew the answer.

“Not among the Swoodilypoopers, there isn’t.”

John thought about it for a moment. Hannah sat back and gave him the space he needed to consider her plan.

“Alright,” he conceded at last, “you can go, I don’t know, spread the word, or whatever it is you do.”

Hannah smiled at him again. “Will do. By this time next week we’ll have had a brief but passionate affair that ended amiably for everyone involved.”

“Sounds great,” John said, “be sure to tell me all about it.” Sarcasm laced his tone, but it wasn’t directed towards Hannah. John hated investigations into his personal life. When did the team decide that his romantic relationships had anything to do with them? Hannah was right that he couldn’t just hope the whole thing went away and people forgot about it, but he wished they would. The precedent also worried him. If they were this interested in his relationship with someone as normal as Hannah, he didn’t like to think about the media storm that would be involved if he and Bald John ever decided to come out.

“I could still be more helpful, you know,” Hannah added after a moment, pulling John from his thoughts.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I could always tell the team you were some kind of heartbreaker who left me for a much younger woman.” John recognized the tease in her tone, which only grew thicker as she continued: “or maybe you were a stallion in the sack, and I fell hopelessly in love with you, but you didn’t want to be tied to one woman? I am a reporter, after all, OJ. I’m very good at spreading rumours.”

John smiled. He appreciated that she was trying to cheer him up. While Hannah and Bald John differed in a lot of ways, they shared the ability to gauge his emotions with startling clarity.

“And hey, I’m still single, so it’s not too late if you want me to be your beard!” she added, her voice still not rising above a stage whisper.

John laughed. All in all, he was touched that she was trying to help, even if her approach was a little more extreme than he might have hoped.

“Thanks, Han. I appreciate the offer, anyway.”

Hannah just leaned over and kissed his cheek.

“Anytime, OJ.”

* * *

True to her word, Hannah’s rumour had fully spread by the end of the following week. The team was going for a cross-country run during an afternoon practice when Ramsden, someone with whom John had previously had extremely limited contact, jogged up to him and clasped him on the shoulder.

“Sorry to hear about you and that reporter bird,” Ramsden puffed loudly as they ran.

“What?” John asked, having completely forgotten they were supposed to have been in a relationship.

“But this means she’s single now, yeah?” Ramsden laughed, ignoring John’s question. “Maybe I should get in there before someone else scoops her up! You lost a catch, man.”

“Oh… yeah,” John said, trying his best to sound disappointed.

“Cool, man. Thanks!” Ramsden took off in an abrupt burst of speed and jogged on ahead. Realization dawned too late that Ramsden thought he had been given the go ahead to ask out Hannah. John glanced up at Bald John, who had been just a foot or two in front of them and had no doubt overheard the exchange.

“Whoops,” John laughed as Bald John slowed down a fraction to run by his side. “I don’t think Hannah will be wild about me accidently trying to set her up with random Swoodilypoopers.”

“She’s forgiven you for worse,” Bald John pointed out.

That much was definitely true.

John looked up from the pavement in front of him when he felt Bald John’s hand running through his hair, which had puffed up considerably with the effort of running.

“Oi!” John reprimanded him with a smile, “don’t we have rules about these things?”

Bald John smirked and removed his hand. “Spoilsport.”

“They’re your rules, Green,” John reminded him as he threw on a burst of speed and took off up the hill back towards the stadium.

In the time between finishing their run, showering, and changing, three more Swoodilypoopers approached John to apologize or offer their condolences about the apparent end of his relationship with Hannah.

“OJ!” Beef Stock called to him as he exited the shower. John looked warily over to where Beef was standing next to his own locker.

“Yeah, Beef?”

“I heard about what happened with you and your girl. It’s too bad, I really thought you’d be good together.”

“Yeah…” John replied vaguely, still unable to come up with a better response. Mostly all he could think was that Hannah would hate being called anyone’s ‘girl’.

John went back to getting dressed in the awkward silence that ensued, and tried to ignore the look of amusement on Bald John’s face.

* * *

In early March, Bald John was finally able to get a couple weeks of holiday. Their spot in the League was firmly established, and Manager John had reluctantly agreed to give him a fortnight off so he could go back home to West Virginia for his Dad’s 50th birthday.

“Are you going to be okay?”

John was standing in Bald John’s small bedroom, folding the other man’s clothes and placing them in a Swindon Town duffel bag on the bed in front of him. Bald John was pulling shirts out of his closet, ironing them in the corner of his room, and handing them to John. Of course Bald John had been the one to come up with this highly efficient packing system. If John had been packing for himself he would have simply stuffed everything into his bag and avoided all the bother, but Bald John was meticulous in everything he did and packing was no exception.

John folded a blue button-down shirt that was still warm from the iron and placed it in the bag on top of a pair of jeans.

“Of course,” Bald John answered breezily over the hiss of the iron, “they’re my family, why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“I just mean…” John tried to phrase his concern as delicately as possible, “with your parents… and… you know, us…. and everything.” Bald John had yet to come out to a single member of his family. This bothered John more than he could say, but how and when Bald John came out to his family were deeply personal decisions, and it was not John’s place to decide for him. “It’s just… you said you were going to tell them the next time you could see them face-to-face, and this will be your first opportunity to –“

“I’ll be fine.” Bald John interjected curtly.

John was itching to ask him for more detail. He wanted to know about his plans for coming out to his family, how he was feeling about it, and whether he was still planning to go through with it. On this topic, however, Bald John had been even more maddeningly tight-lipped than usual. John felt sure that there was something Bald John wasn’t telling him. It made him nervous.

He saw it in the way Bald John’s eyes were carefully avoiding his; he was definitely holding something back.

“Hey,” John’s tone was pressing enough to make Bald John look up from his ironing, “you can talk to me, you know. If you’re nervous about it or if you’re having second thoughts…” He hated even voicing the idea, but if Bald John needed more time, that was his prerogative.

Without a word Bald John moved out from behind the ironing board and crashed his lips against John. The kiss was uncommonly forceful, harsh, and full of a possessive desire. It wasn’t unpleasant, but the intensity took John by surprise, and he stumbled against Bald John. In response, Bald John wrapped his arms firmly around John’s lower back and held him in place against his chest.

“I’m not having second thoughts,” Bald John assured him after he had pulled away. John could only nod, quite at a loss for words and far more turned on than he cared to admit. Silently, Bald John pressed a soft kiss to John’s temple, before returning to his ironing.

John bent back over the crumpled shirt that he had been mid-way through folding before Bald John’s interruption.

“So what is it then?” John asked after a minute, his voice firm. “Because there’s clearly something bothering you.”

Bald John’s eyes didn’t leave the shirt he was working on, but his posture shifted and John noticed some of the tension leave his shoulders.

“It’s just that…” Bald John sighed before continuing, “this will be the first time I’ve seen them since everything with Lindsay…” his voice was quiet and evasive.

“They do know you got divorced, don’t they?” John asked, suddenly afraid of the answer.

“Yes, of course they do,” Bald John replied.

John was still alarmed by his tone. There was a reticence there, which sounded like something akin to guilt. “But…?” he prompted.

“They do know,” Bald John repeated, his voice a little firmer, “but I think they’re in denial a little. They keep asking about her when they call, and I have to keep reminding them that we haven’t been in touch. I think they’ve even called Lindsay themselves a couple of times. I just… I think they’ve had some trouble processing it.”

Indignation flared up on Bald John’s behalf. “Why would they call her when they know you just got divorced?” John demanded. He could already feel himself forming a negative opinion of Bald John’s parents for their tactless behaviour.

“Try to understand,” Bald John’s voice was so calm and reassuring that John felt sure he was being placated, “family means a lot to us. It’s just a part of how we were raised. And my parents thought of Lindsay as family, so I guess it’s hard for them to accept that she’s not in my life anymore.” Bald John paused and John got the sense that he was trying to decide whether or not to say something else. After another moment he added, “I think they still have an expectation that we’ll sort everything out and get back together.”

John felt a sharp flare of jealousy that he at least had the decency to feel ashamed about. Even so, he couldn’t keep the bitter sarcasm out of his voice when next he spoke. “Well that bodes well for their acceptance of me, doesn’t it?”  
“It’ll be… an adjustment,” he conceded.

Not for the first time, John found himself wishing that Bald John had come out to his parents sooner. He had to bite his tongue to prevent himself from saying something that he would later regret. Bald John was doing what he thought was best, and John knew he had no right to make judgements about Bald John’s parents – two people whom he had never met. Even so, he felt a sickening sadness as he helped Bald John finish his packing and walked him to the door.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you to the train station?” John asked as they stood facing each other at the front door. He handed the duffel bag to Bald John, who slung it over his shoulder with practiced ease.

“No, I’ll be fine,” he replied. “Besides, you have to be at The County Ground in ten minutes.”

“I won’t be late,” John said dismissively.

Bald John smiled. “You will. But it’s okay. Patrick’s come to expect it at this point.”

John didn’t want to talk about Patrick. He wanted to go with Bald John to the train station. He wanted to get on the train to Heathrow with him. He wanted to get on the flight to West Virginia with him. He wanted to hold his hand when he came out to his parents.

But he knew that wasn’t what Bald John wanted, so instead he just nodded and cupped Bald John’s cheek in his palm. “Have a safe flight.”

“I’ll be fine,” Bald John said again.

John didn’t bother to ask whether he was talking about the flight or coming out to his family. He just kissed him. Bald John’s moustache tickled the sensitive skin between his upper lip and his nose and his hand ghosted gently across the front of John’s shirt.

“I really love you,” Bald John said, barely moving his lips away from John’s.

This wasn’t the first time either of them had expressed words of love, but the occasions were few and far between, particularly on Bald John’s part. Bald John was a firm believer in the value and weight of words, so he used powerful ones rarely, so as to maximize their meaning. It was just one more thing on the ever-expanding list of things John loved about him.

John pulled back a little more and grinned at Bald John. He wanted to savour the feeling of warmth that had spread through him. All too soon his arms would be empty and he would be alone in the house for the next two weeks.

“Obviously.” John said at last with a teasing smile. “Now get gone, or you’re going to miss your flight.”

John pressed final kiss to Bald John’s cheek, before half-pushing him out the door.

“Hey!” John called after him when he had reached the pavement. Bald John looked back up towards the open door, where John was still standing on the threshold. “I really love you too.”

A smile quirked at the corner of Bald John’s lips.

“Obviously!” he called back.

* * *

John was in low spirits as he trudged back into the visitor's locker room following the team's away match in Wycomb. He hadn't played well – none of them had, and the result reflected it. They had lost for the second time since John had joined the team. He felt sure that he could have played much better if he'd had Bald John with him. Cteve was a fine striker in his own right, but their chemistry on the pitch didn't come anywhere close to his dynamic with Bald John, and it was frustrating to John when he didn't play as well as he knew he could.

Just four more days.

He hadn't heard much from Bald John in the week and a half since he had gone back to the States. John knew he was busy catching up with his family and catching his family up on his life, but he couldn't help the nagging sense of abandonment that had been growing all week. So this is what it feels like to be co-dependent. The feeling was entirely new to John. In the past he had prided himself on his ability to be relatively independent. Increasingly, he could no longer remember why that independence had mattered to him, when the alternative was being able to share his life with someone he loved. Even so, he wasn't fond of feeling as though a part of him had been forcibly removed and taken away with Bald John to America.

Just four more days.

The last time he had spoken to Bald John they had… not fought, exactly, but argued a little. John had been burning to ask him about the situation with his family, but Bald John was being somewhat terse on the subject. And without being able to study his features, John could learn very little about Bald John's emotional state.

John was so lost in his own concerns that he paid minimal attention to his fellow team members as they dressed and trudged onto the bus for the short drive back to Swindon. John sat against one of the windows with Picard Smith, who hadn't started once all season, sitting next to him in a sullen silence. John watched the cars roar pass them on the motorway and drifted in and out of consciousness. He was jerked from his reverie by the sounds of a raised voice.

"Goddamnit Fitz, could you at least pretend to care? I don't know if you noticed, but we bloody lost!"

Ginger Rampage was at it again. John sighed. He shouldn't even be surprised – the man could barely hold his rage together when they drew. Something Fitz had said must have rubbed Ginger the wrong way. Despite Ginger's state, Fitz looked quite at ease.

"Yeah," Fitz replied, his smile wavering just a fraction, "but at least we're still pretty."

Ginger punched the seat next to Fitz's head.

John thought he should probably intervene, but Voluptuous beat him to it. He rose quickly from one of the seats at the front of the bus and offered to switch with Ginger, in an obvious bid to put as much distance as possible between him and Fitz. Ginger grudgingly accepted and went to sit beside Cteve for the rest of the journey. Cteve, John couldn't help noticing, didn't look too thrilled about this.

John gave up trying to follow the Swoodilypooper drama. He leaned his head against the window and allowed his mind to wander back to his concerns for Bald John.

John was relieved when the bus finally came to a halt in the County Ground parking lot. He was desperate to get off the bus, at least. Though in truth, he wasn't much looking forward to going back to his empty house. It was always when he ran out of things to keep him occupied that John felt most lonely.

"Hey, OJ!"

Leeroy clambered off the bus directly behind John and jogged for two paces to catch up to him.

"Hey, Lee." John smiled at the mid-fielder. In general John was quite fond of Leeroy, particularly since he had helped to diffuse the situation between him and Beef Stock.

"Listen, dude, what are you up to this evening?"

"Nothing much," John admitted. "I thought I might pop by the pub if anyone's going. Why do you ask?"

Lee's face lit up at this news.

"That's great! See, me and Fitz run a poker night every other Thursday –"

"Fitz and I," John corrected before he could stop himself. He wasn't usually the type to correct other people's grammar. Bald John must be rubbing off on me. The idea made John smile.

"What?" Leeroy asked, apparently puzzled.

"Sorry, nothing," John reassured him. "You were saying?"

"Right, yeah, so anyways, we run this poker night. Only Voluptuous just had to cancel on us. Something about Alice's birthday, or whatever," Leeroy said, clearly thinking that this was a poor excuse to cancel on poker night.

"Okay…" John said, waiting for Leeroy to get to the point.

"So, you up for a poker night, OJ?"

John tried not to laugh. He had only ever played poker once, with some teammates back when he was with the Liverpool Junior League, and he had lost nearly a hundred pounds in one night. He was utterly terrible at poker.

"I don't think that's such a good idea…" John started to say, but Leeroy had his arm around John's shoulders before he could even finish his sentence.

"Nonsense!" Leeroy said loudly, as though speaking at a greater volume meant the issue was somehow settled. "Come on, Other John, you'd be doing us a massive favour. Plus it's fun! There'll be crisps, and cigars, and booze because Cteve is great at poker until you get him drunk and then he's awful!" Leeroy laughed, his arm still draped over John's shoulders. "I think Peter said he could make it too once he finishes his article for the Gazette about today's match."

John suddenly realized that Leeroy, Fitz, Voluptuous, Cteve and Peter must have been having this poker night on a regular basis for some time. The idea made John suddenly sad, as though he had quietly been left out of this opportunity to spend more time with his friends. For all he knew half the team might be aware of these poker nights. Was it just him and Bald John stuck on the outside looking in?

"Alright," John conceded, "yeah, why not? Might be fun."

The more John thought about it, the more he quite liked the idea of spending an evening with 'the boys'. After all, hadn't he and Bald John agreed that they should socialize more with the rest of the team? Hadn't that been the point of their ill-fated dinner party in the first place?

John laughed at the look of relief and excitement on Leeroy's face.

"Wicked, man! I'll text you my address. See you at nine!" Leeroy called to him as he ran back towards the bus; presumably to inform others that he'd found a replacement for Voluptuous.

John supposed he would just have to resign himself to losing a couple of quid that evening.

John was exactly as terrible at poker as he remembered. Five hands in he had already lost half of the budget he had allowed himself for the evening. He settled on a new strategy: fold at every opportunity until he had a truly sensational hand. He was content to lose the rest of his money on the ante and avoid risking any on an actual bet. It was not the most savvy of strategies, but John was not a savvy card player. In fact, he found the bluffing element remarkably stressful and blushed so furiously when he did it that he may as well have played with his cards face-up. This was a serious limitation when it came to poker.

"Call," Fitz said coolly from his seat on John's right. There was an awkward beat during which the whole table looked over at him.

"Your bet," Fitz prompted him.

John peaked at the two utterly unrelated cards in his hand, and then up at the similarly unrelated cards laid out in the centre of the table.

"I fold," John said with a sigh.

"Wahey!" Cteve laughed, taking another drink from the glass in front of him, "OJ's finally learned how to fold! You're getting there, mate, now you just need to learn how to call, bet and bluff!"

Peter, Fitz and Leeroy all laughed. Even John chuckled a little. He couldn't really fault them for making fun of his card playing – he really was atrocious.

"Call," Cteve said, passing the bet to Peter.

The hand continued from there, but John stopped following it very closely. Rather, he sat back in his chair and took a sip of the whiskey in front of him. Each sip reminded John that he hated whiskey, but it was what Cteve had poured into his glass, so he resolved to drink it all the same.

John looked around Leeroy's flat. They were in his expansive living room sitting at a well-used felt poker table. There were faded stains in the felt and even a few small burn holes. John had assumed the table had been brought out for the purpose of the game, though he was starting to think that Leeroy used it for a dining room table out of sheer convenience. The whole apartment in general felt to John like it might have once been a warehouse that was converted into a flat. The ceiling was very high, the entire flat had hardwood flooring, and the left wall was almost entirely windows. The opposite side of the living room had a large TV mounted on the wall and a pair of sleek black couches angled towards it. At the very back of the room was a large foosball table and a set of expensive-looking speakers. The room felt light and airy, even late at night. All in all, it suited Leeroy to a tee.

John felt a little sad that it had taken him so many months to ever see Leeroy's flat in the first place. He resolved that once Bald John returned home they would make an effort to socialize more proactively with the team. Despite his inability to keep hold of his money, John was enjoying himself.

He'd had some trepidation about the evening when he arrived early that evening and saw that Peter had indeed managed to join them for the poker night. He had feared that Peter would ask about what happened with Hannah. However, John was pleased to note that none of them had brought it up once. He was beginning to wonder whether Hannah had asked them not to mention it.

He could imagine her with perfect clarity: "Listen, though," she would say in the tone of voice she reserved for gossiping, "don't ask OJ about us. I think he's having a bit of trouble moving on, you know. He won't want to be reminded of it."

The idea amused and irritated John in equal measure. He liked that she went out of her way to make sure that he wouldn't be hassled about their faux-relationship, but he hoped she didn't make him sound too lovelorn or pathetic. He did have his pride to consider, after all.

It seemed that John's love life was old news, in any case. That evening the conversation was dominated by discussions of Ginger Rampage. None of them had failed to notice his truly appalling mood that afternoon on the bus back from Wycomb.

"You know Ginger," Leeroy shrugged, "he doesn't take loss very well."

"Yeah well someone needs to remind him that we're only in bloody League 2," Cteve said, his voice slurred slightly from drink. "We'll probably get promoted to League 1; we may even get promoted to the Championship. But someone needs to remind that boy that we're not ever going to be a better side than Man U. He needs a new ambition."

"You never know," Peter replied, "you might make it to the Premiership one day."

"Yeah, Swindon Town might," Cteve conceded, taking another drink, "but even if the Swoodilypoopers makes it to the Premiership, how many of us do you think would still be on the team? One or two? At a push. The moment Manager John can afford it he's trading us all for halfway decent players. That's why you're the lucky one among us, Pete. You could be with Swindon the rest of your life if you fancied it. The rest of us don't have that kind of job security."

John had nothing encouraging to say about that. The very same thought had also crossed his mind. He had no doubt that Manager John would want to keep Bald John, but the rest of them? He wasn't so sure. John had been handed too much rejection in his life to believe that he could ever be as good as his co-striker, or would ever be worth as much in the eyes of their Manager. His inferior quality was clear, if nothing else than from the match they had played that very day. He wasn't half the player Bald John was, and when it came to his own chances for playing in the Premiership, John remained a staunch realist. Attainable goals and all that, eh, Bennett?

"You should give Manager John more credit," Fitz said, his voice as calm as ever. "He puts a high premium on loyalty. I don't see him ditching us just because the club has more money. If we get him to the Premiership he'll make sure we get to reap the benefits."

That was Fitz through and through, really. He didn't let anything faze him; he just kept doing his thing in his own quiet, eternally laid-back way. John wished he could achieve that level of self-assuredness.

"Well, this conversation took a turn for the serious," Leeroy said. "Go turn the music back on, Fitz. Let's try to remember we're supposed to be having fun, yeah?"

John looked back at the poker table to find Fitz handing him the deck of cards. "It's your deal, man."

The only part of poker than John was any good at was shuffling. His finger dexterity was abnormally good, especially for a footballer. He supposed it was a leftover skill from his days as a pianist. He separated the deck and artfully weaved it back together without a single card falling out of place. He repeated the action twice more before he was satisfied that they were once again randomized. With the same meticulous ease, John dealt out two cards each to the boys: Cteve, Peter, Lee, Fitz, me. Cteve, Peter, Lee, Fitz, me.

And so the game continued once more. Still, John couldn't shake their earlier conversation. Could they really make it to the Premiership? And if so, would he even get to play? You never know, a voice in the back of John's head said firmly. Maybe one day. The voice sounded a lot like Bald John.

Several hours later, John managed to stumble his way home through a slight fog of whiskey. He curled up in bed and tried to read his book for a little while, hoping that the alcohol might work its way out of his system before he rang Bald John.

On the whole, and largely despite Cteve's sullen attitude, John had thoroughly enjoyed himself at Leeroy's poker night. Lee and Fitz were always great company, and John figured that if Hannah spoke so highly of Peter he was likely worth John's time. Indeed, he had found Peter to be relaxing company. His laughs came with ease and he seemed to have a boundless optimism that John didn't think he could ever hope to possess. He supposed that kind of positive attitude would have been an absolute necessity to remain a diehard Swindon supporter throughout their dismal efforts in the past decade.

John thought it would take much more than one evening to make him even passable at poker, but it didn't prevent him from enjoying the game all the same. If John was lucky, he thought he might even have merited himself an invite back for their next gathering in two weeks time, not least because he was fantastic at parting with his money. Maybe Bald John would even be able to join them next time. John made a mental note to ask Lee about expanding their numbers slightly to accommodate him.

He was just beginning to think that he might finally be sober enough to call West Virginia when his mobile buzzed across the surface of the bedside table. He picked it up and smiled to himself when he saw the number on his caller ID.

"Hey." John said the word slowly, drawing it out into three syllables and filling it with as much warmth as he could.

"Hey yourself," came Bald John's delicious American accent.

"How's the less cool side of the Atlantic?" John asked, his tease only half-hearted.

"Beautiful," Bald John replied, earnest as ever. "It's wonderful to be home for a little while…" He paused, but John felt he hadn't finished his sentence. He waited, slightly on edge, for Bald John to build up to whatever it was he wanted to say. That was his way; words had weight and needed to be carefully considered before they could be voiced.

Though on this occasion if Bald John did have something else he wanted to say, he seemed to have thought better of it. "What have you been up to?"

John was a little taken aback by the abrupt change of topic, but he recognized that Bald John still wasn't ready to talk about what was going on over there. John would just need to learn a little more patience, which had admittedly never been his strong suit.

"I went to a poker night this evening," John said. In as bright a tone as he could manage, he launched into a recount of his day. He told Bald John about their loss against Wycomb, but of course Bald John had already looked up the results online. He proceeded to explain about the impromptu poker night and insisted that when he got back they should try to go again. Bald John had mentioned once that his older brother, Myles, had taught him how to play poker when he was a teenager, so John was confident he would fit right in.

When John had finished all the anecdotes he could think of to tell, he lapsed into silence. And they just sat like that, listening to each other breathe. Neither of them cared that cross-Atlantic phone calls were murderously expensive. They just sat there together, separated by oceans and time zones.

Twice Bald John took a breath as though to begin speaking and then stopped. John fidgeted with the corner of his pillow, biting back the desire to ask Bald John what was on his mind.

“I haven’t told them yet.”

John’s heart dropped into his stomach. “That’s fine, really. I don’t want you to feel like I’m pressuring you to do anything –“

"I'm going to tell them tomorrow,” Bald John cut him off firmly. “All of them. Myles arrives home tomorrow. So I'm going to tell all of them." Even though his voice gave very little away, the fact that Bald John had repeated the same sentence twice indicated just how nervous he must be. If John hadn’t put so much effort into understanding Bald John's mannerisms, he might have missed it.

"It will be okay,” John told him, forcing a confidence he didn’t feel.

"I wish you were here with me.”

Yearning tugged hard at John’s heart. There was nothing in the world he wanted more than to be there with him. He longed to put his arms around his partner and let him feel a physical reassuring presence.

"I wish I was there too.” The words sounded paltry in comparison to how he was feeling.

"It's late for you, isn't it?" Bald John asked after a moment. "I should probably let you go."

"Yeah… I guess." John didn't want to leave. He didn't want to go back to the oppressive silence of his empty, dark, suddenly-far-too-big house. Even more so, he didn't want to leave Bald John to deal with the following morning alone. John was about to protest that he didn't need to go just yet, when a wave of exhaustion crashed over him. A yawn overtook him before he could get a word out.

He heard Bald John chuckle softly down the line.

"Go to bed, Bennett."

Again John wanted to protest, but his arms were suddenly so heavy and his eyes were closing despite his best efforts to stop them. He silently cursed Cteve's whiskey.

"Alright," he conceded. "I'm going."

"I'll be home soon," Bald John assured him. They were silent for another moment. "I miss you."

John yawned again. "You too."

John didn't remember ending the call, but he slept the rest of the night curled in a ball on Bald John's side of the bed with his phone pressed against his chest like a security blanket.

* * *

* * *

Bald John had never been a late sleeper. Even when he was a teenager, something about the early morning had always been enticing to him. He was accustomed to rising with the sun, so it was no surprise to him when he awoke in the grey pre-dawn light. Bald John sat up in bed and checked the time on his phone. 5:45am.

He also noticed that he had received a text from Other John.

_Good luck today. Call me if you need anything. Love you. OJ xx_

_PS: Cteve's got a whiskey hangover at practice this morning. So do I, actually. Shame Manager John picked today to coach practice. No wonder he likes you more than me._

Bald John laughed quietly to himself, cutting through the morning silence. He considered calling Other John, but ultimately decided to wait until after he had come out to his family. They had said all there was to say; now it was up to him to follow through.

* * *

Crisp early-morning wind whipped around Bald John’s ears and numbed his cheeks as he wandered out to the back garden. Dew still clung to the grass in the yard and thin cirrus clouds dotted the sky. Scents of rain and dirt hung in the air as John began to pace the yard. He’d hoped a bit of fresh air would help calm his nerves before what was sure to be a uniquely stressful day. Something caught John’s eye as he passed the small wooden shed tucked beside the house, and drew him up short. Resting against the door to the shed was a faded leather American football. Just the sight of it threw John back into vivid memories of his childhood.

Growing up, John used to go down to one of the wide valleys of grassland wedged between two small mountains half a mile or so down the road. On some occasions he would meet with his friends and play hastily thrown together matches of touch football. John would be the quarterback by default, simply because he was the only one of his friends who could throw the ball on target further than a few yards. They would trip and stumble across the uneven rocky terrain and return home with scraped knees and cuts on their hands. On other occasions John's dad used to take him and his brothers down to the same grassy piece of wilderness and throw the same ball around with them for hours. They would stay there until the sun was lost behind the mountainous horizon and they were forced to leave while the remains of the daylight could still guide them home. John smiled to himself at the memories. He picked up the ball and tossed it from one hand to the other, reminding himself of its weight and feel. It felt so foreign to him – so different from the soccer balls he loved now.

John carried the ball with him as he walked down to the bottom of the hill. He threw the ball gently into the air and caught it again as he walked. John watched it spin madly up and fall directly back down into his waiting hands as his feet carried him down the familiar path to the grasslands. Everything, right down to the smells, was so crystal clear in John's memory that it felt as though he had never left. But he had left, and the reality of this was inescapable.

* * *

The sun peeked slowly out from over the top of the Appalachian Mountains as John sat on a small rock that was jutting out from the grassy earth. He felt he should probably head back home and face the music, but he couldn't. He wasn't ready. There was no question that he needed to come out. It was the right thing to do. Beyond that, he didn't have any choice: he couldn't lie to his whole family for God knew how long, and he wouldn't end his relationship with John, or pretend to be someone he wasn't. Even so… he wasn't ready.

 _I guess I'm just a coward._ If he were braver, it wouldn't matter what the team, the Football Association, or the general public thought about his relationship with Other John. If they were both a little braver they would just tell the truth and sod the consequences. But they couldn’t face it, and all the pride in the world couldn’t overcome their fear.

Bald John thought, however, that cowardice was a matter of degrees, and he was surely a much greater coward than his partner. Bald John had been back in West Virginia for over a week, and he hadn't managed to tell a single member of his family. Not one. He told John that it was because he wanted to wait until Myles had arrived home so he could tell them all at once, but that wasn't quite true. The truth was that every time John had an opportunity to do it, he found a reason to put it off. I don't want to ruin their day by telling them in the morning. I don't want to spoil the lovely dinner we just had. I don't want to tell them during the week, when Dad will need to go to work in the morning. He was grasping for excuses. Even worse: Other John surely knew it. Every time they spoke Bald John could feel Other John's desperation, his worry and his empathy. He wanted to hear that it was over, that Bald John had finally come out to his family. Instead, every single time they spoke, Bald John was forced to disappoint the man he loved a little bit more.

Guilt and fear and an aching sadness weighed on Bald John more and more each day. He felt worse because he knew that Other John, despite his own desires, would never push him. It was yet another thing Bald John loved about him. Other John's greatest strength, his most powerful gift, was that he understood people. He could see the people around him for all of their talents, their ambitions, and their flaws. He could appreciate all aspects of an individual and love them for all their virtues and in spite of their vices. Bald John was not so talented in the act of empathy. He was a rationalist. He could assess a situation and draw conclusions from it, or anticipate someone's behaviour based on past experience. He could even diffuse arguments or provide a calming voice when people's emotions got out of hand. But he had trouble getting to the heart of someone else's motivation. He needed Other John for that.

Not for the first time, Bald John wished Other John could be there with him.

"Hey, son."

John started and looked sharply over his shoulder. Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t even noticed his father clambering down the same path that John had followed earlier that morning.

Richard Green was looking older than ever. His moustache and what remained of his hair had turned a dull shade of white-grey, and he had gained some weight around his middle that certainly hadn't been there when he was younger. He limped awkwardly down the last bit of slope before coming to sit beside his son on an adjacent rock.

"Hey, Dad. What are you doing down here? It's early, isn't it?"

His dad gave a small half-shrug. "Not too early. Nearly seven. I noticed that your door was open, but you weren't in the house, so I thought you might be down here."

"Yeah," John replied, smiling. "I like it here. I always have."

"But Son, you're doing it wrong." Richard's eyes were gleaming with a gentle tease.

"How so?"

"Oh Johnny, you've been playing soccer too long. You’ve gone soft. Forgotten how to use your hands." With that, his dad reached across quicker than John would have thought possible and snatched the football from John's loose grip. "Get up." Richard's tone was halfway between a command and a challenge.

Stiff from sitting for so long, John drew himself up and walked a few paces away from his dad, preparing to catch the ball should his father throw it. Without thinking about it, John had placed himself at roughly the distance that a soccer ball was tossed during a throw-in, or if Fat Lucas was passing to one of them from the box.

His dad laughed. "You're going to want to go a little longer than that."

He threw the football with force that seemed distinctly beyond his years. John reacted instinctively and sprinted to follow the ball as it arched high and fast in the air. Of course he missed it by a significant margin. He ran up to where it had landed – a good fifty feet away – and picked it up. He stood, for a moment, suddenly worried that he wouldn't be able to throw it anywhere close to as far. Even so, he drew the ball back and launched it towards his dad. It landed more or less where he was aiming. Richard was at least able to catch it without too much scrambling. As expected, the ball came soaring back toward him a moment later.

Over the course of the next hour, John fell back into a very old and very comfortable routine with his dad. They slowly closed the distance between them to the point that they could comfortably have a conversation while the ball flew gracefully back and forth between them. His dad spoke a bit about how his work was going, the plans they had for the coming months, and what he thought about the Super Bowl that had taken place the month before – the Patriots were robbed.

"You know," Richard said after while, "I still think it's a shame that you didn't try to pursue football. You're really great, Johnny."

John had had this conversation many times with his father in the past, but he was willing to have it again. He loved his dad, and he understood that his decision to go professional with soccer as opposed to American football had always seemed to his father like he preferred some strange, foreign sport over the one he'd been raised with.

"I'm not that great, Dad. I was fine. I was pretty good. I was never professional-level. Besides, it wasn't right for me. I love American football, but soccer… Soccer is my sport. It's perfect. I've never been happier in my life than when I'm playing soccer." In truth, he'd never been happier than when he was playing soccer with Other John, but he left that part out. "Swindon is my home now, and the Swoodilypoopers are…"

"Your family?" his dad finished for him. It wasn't an accusation. His tone was closer to one of resignation. John thought this might be a gulf between them that could never be bridged.

His dad had never quite understood what had drawn John to play soccer. While he had come to a few of John's matches when he was briefly playing for an American side, he had never embraced it. And John had never been able to express to him why he loved it so much. It wasn't just that John was much better at playing soccer than he had been at American football. He loved everything about the sport. He loved that it was simultaneously a pure, simple test of strength and a complex mixture of tactics and teamwork. He craved soccer like a drug. When he was on the pitch he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that there was no other life for him. John didn't know how to convey this passion to his father, so he said nothing.

They fell quiet for a while after that, enjoying the rhythmic catch and release of the ball. Eventually, their aim deteriorated, and they both began to miss the ball with greater frequency. They abandoned their game and began to walk back up the hill towards the house. John kept the football clutched in his hand as they walked.

His mom was also an early riser, so she at least was almost guaranteed to be awake. This meant there was likely to be fresh coffee brewing. It was this thought in particular that spurred John and his dad back towards the house. Coffee was something of an institution in their family. They walked across the back garden, up the porch, and into the small kitchen through the glass French doors at the back of the kitchen. Sure enough, Sheila Green was sitting at the kitchen table. She was wrapped in a soft housecoat, sipping from a steaming mug and looking intently at a Sudoku from the morning paper. She held a small pencil in her right hand and was hovering it over the squares of the puzzle, drawing it back and forth through the air without making a mark on the paper.

"Morning, Mom," John said softly from the door. She started and looked up at him.

"John! Richard! Sorry, I didn't hear you come in. Have you been outside? It's early."

John and Richard shrugged in unison. "Couldn't sleep I guess," John said. "Is there coffee?"

"Yes, I just made a pot. Help yourselves. Myles got in from Charleston late last night. So once everyone's up we can all have breakfast together!"

His mom sounded so delighted by the prospect of having everyone under the same roof that it almost broke John's heart. He didn't want to steal the spotlight. He didn't want to make the weekend all about him and his announcement.

"That's assuming Nate manages to wake up before noon," he said, trying to ignore his anxieties.

John kicked off his shoes and left them on the mat outside the back door, along with the football. He padded across the room to get himself some of the coffee that was dripping into the pot on the counter. His dad, meanwhile, walked straight through the kitchen with his shoes still on.

"If we're going to have breakfast, I might drive into town and pick up some groceries," he said to Sheila.

"Oh, that’d be great, hun, thanks." She smiled at her husband, and didn't even bother to complain about his walking through the house with shoes on.

"No problem," Richard said. "I'll be back in a bit.”

John filled a travel mug of coffee for his dad and handed it to him. Richard thanked him and accepted it while he gathered up his wallet and keys. Within a minute he had kissed Sheila quickly and left through the front door, leaving John and his mother in the quiet kitchen. John sat down in his usual seat at the kitchen table, his own mug of coffee in hand. He looked sideways at his mother's puzzle.

"The top left square is a seven," he said after a moment, pointing to the relevant square. His mother frowned and swatted his arm with her pencil.

"Don't you know it's rude to try and help people with their Sudoku?" Her voice was chastising, but she was smiling anyway. John grinned at her like a young boy and kissed her cheek.

"Sorry, Mom," he replied obediently. She simply sighed and filled the square with a '7'.

He left her to finish the rest of her puzzle, and reached instead for the sports section of the local paper. They sat like that in a relaxed silence until they heard the sounds of someone coming down the stairs and through the foyer of the house towards the kitchen. They both looked up in time to see Myles enter the room.

It had only been nine months since John had last seen his older brother, but the man looked different than John remembered. He had clearly lost weight. He looked calm and put together, and there was a maturity in his pressed shirt and clean shave that was in stark contrast to the man he’d been when John had still been living at home. His hair had receded even more dramatically than ever, giving him an older appearance than his actual age of twenty-seven. Receding hairlines were an unavoidable curse in their family. John had embraced it a long time ago, but Myles still seemed determined to hold on to what little he had left. Even his moustache looked thin around the edges. Despite this, John thought he also looked a little happier. It was difficult to judge, but the muscles in his face weren't so tense, and he didn't have the permanent scowl that John remembered from when he was younger.

"Johnny!" Myles strode across the kitchen in a few long steps and stood expectantly in front of John's chair. John rose to meet his brother and they hugged each other in a typically male fashion.

John could feel the awkward tension in their movements. John and Myles had always had something of a fragile relationship; they had never quite been able to see eye to eye on anything. Even as children they had fought about the rules to games, the teams they supported, or their favourite foods. As they grew older these fights became more heated and more significant. They had argued about everything from religion to politics. Their worst – and most recent – fight had been when John decided to move to England. Myles had seen it as a kind of betrayal, as though John was abandoning their family in order to fulfil his own ambition. Maybe that was true, but it had been John's decision to make and his passion to pursue. In his more unkind moments, John felt that Myles resented him: John was the first member of his family to go to college, he was the first in a three generations to move out of state, and he was certainly the first to move to a foreign country. Myles, in contrast, went to work at sixteen in the same coal plant as their father. It was only in the last year that he received a promotion to one of the larger factories on the other side of the state.

Maybe Myles felt it wasn't John's place as a middle child to so drastically break with the traditions of their family. Maybe he was just jealous. John didn't know for sure, but he didn't think it much mattered. As far as John was concerned they could disagree for the rest of their lives, but that wouldn't change the fact that they were family and were therefore bound to love each other whether they wanted to or not. In light of this, John smiled warmly at his brother.

"There's coffee if you'd like some, Myles," he said, hoping it would act as some kind of peace offering between them.

"No can do, I'm off coffee. Since Jenny got pregnant I figured I'd quit too –"

"Jenny's pregnant!?" John exclaimed, all thoughts of coffee abandoned. Myles blinked and coloured, looking embarrassed.

"I thought you knew. I figured Mom and Dad would have told you…" He looked over at their mom, who was still sitting at the kitchen table.

"We thought you were going to tell him!" she exclaimed. She sounded vaguely annoyed to discover that Myles hadn't.

"Well, yeah, anyways. Jenny's pregnant!" Myles announced redundantly.

John beamed. His sudden thrill of pleasure for his brother was so unexpected that all he could do was laugh and pull his brother into a second hug. This time all sense of discomfort was gone, and they embraced with genuine enthusiasm.

"Congratulations, Myles," John said once they'd parted. "I'm really happy for you."

"Thanks. She's only ten weeks along, but we're pretty excited."

John had always been fond of Jenny, Myles' wife. She and Lindsay had been close friends during college, and they used to see quite a lot of each other. The girls would come to John's college football games, and they would all go out afterwards for cheap pizza and even cheaper beer. It suddenly felt to John like a lifetime ago. He hadn't even spoken to Jenny since he and Lindsay got divorced. Was he so distanced now that no one would have thought to tell him that she and his own brother were having a child? The thought made John a little sad, but it wasn't enough to dampen his happiness on his Myles' behalf.

Both brothers took up their seats at the table along with their mother. John teased her lightly about not having mentioned Jenny's pregnancy, but she was quick to chastise Myles for not managing to send an email. It turned out that John had only been out of the loop for a week, so he managed to get over his slightly bruised ego and see the humour in their utter inability to communicate.

Following Myles' news, John managed to relax considerably around his brother and they fell back into familiar patterns. They were getting along about as well as they ever did when Matt entered the kitchen too. He smiled at his brothers, kissed his mom on the cheek, and went about drumming up breakfast.

Matt was always relatively reserved. He was particularly quiet in the mornings, before he'd consumed any caffeine. He clambered blindly around the kitchen and let out a soft cry when he found the coffee pot empty.

"No… coffee…" he moaned quietly.

"That's what happens when you don't wake up early enough, son," Richard said from the doorway of the kitchen.

John looked over at his dad. Bags of groceries in each hand, he walked over to his wife, kissed the top of her head – she was still bent over the same Suduko puzzle – and set about unpacking the groceries on the kitchen counter. John immediately recognized the ingredients for pancakes and felt himself grow hungry at the mere anticipation.

Matt, meanwhile, had managed to put on a new pot of coffee and sat down irritably next to John while he waited for it to brew.

"It's not me," he finally said in response to their dad's comment, "it's all of you. This is what happens when you all come home." He glared accusatorily at John and Myles.

"Give it up, Matty." John smiled at his favourite brother. "You know you're bored out of your skull whenever we go away."

John looped his arm around his brother's shoulder affectionately, and sure enough Matt's gloomy demeanour melted away. He chuckled and shrugged off John's arm. The family lapsed into smaller, quiet conversations. Myles got up to help their dad prepare breakfast, and they began discussing something to do with coal that John could barely make heads or tails of. His mother finally abandoned her puzzle and headed upstairs to see about waking Nate. That left Matt and John sitting side by side at the table. After another moment Matt got up to finally get his coffee, and John was left alone at his childhood kitchen table, looking out the window at the stunning view of West Virginia.

It was nearly time.

"You alright, Johnny?" Matt had returned to the table and was looking at him in concern.

John forced a tight smile that he knew wouldn't fool anyone. "Yeah. I'm fine."

Matt looked thoroughly unconvinced, but John knew he wouldn't force the issue. It was one of the things John loved so much about Matt in particular – he never forced anyone to do anything. In a family of big personalities, John had always identified most with Matt and their mom. John thought he and his brother must have inherited their mom's quiet, stoic genes. Matt wasn't much of a talker, but he was a great thinker. Even when he had been very young John remembered being surprised by Matt's ability to think about things from insightful and unexpected points of view. Matt had decided to follow in John's footsteps and attend college, as a psychology major. It certainly wouldn't have been John's field of choice, but it fit Matt like a glove. John was enormously proud of his brother. Looking at the twenty-one year old next to him, he was also impressed to see the adult behind the child he had always known. His hair was still more or less in tact, and his moustache rivalled John's in bushiness. Even more than that, he had a confidence in his eyes that could only come with time, experience, and wisdom.

John had been so distracted in his thoughts that he forgot to be terrified about his forthcoming announcement. It was only when his mother re-appeared with Nate in tow that the sudden reality crashed back down on John. Nate, like almost everyone else in their family, made a beeline for the coffee.

Bald John had been waiting for this all morning.

But we're about to have pancakes, a cowardly, childish voice in the back of John's head said. Couldn't it wait until after we've had the pancakes?

The voice won out. How John managed to get the whole way through their family breakfast without having a panic attack was beyond him. Even so, he allowed them to have a meal together, because he wanted his mother to enjoy the morning. While he didn't yet know how his family would react to his news, he knew that they wouldn't have gotten around to having breakfast if he had told them earlier.

After all the food had been consumed and the plates cleared, John knew he didn't have a moment to lose. They were bound to scatter, each to their own jobs or friends or pursuits. That's it. We're all in one place. It's time. The kitchen suddenly felt so cramped. Now. I need to say something now. Bald John's mouth had gone dry, and his leg was beating a steady rhythm against the linoleum floor.

"Everyone," he said, cutting through whatever Myles had been saying to their parents, "I have something I'd like to say. An announcement of sorts."

"Oh, wait one moment, sweetheart," John's mom cut him off before he had said a word. "Just let me clear the plates first."

Bald John took a breath and nodded mutely.

"Thanks, Sheila." His dad passed his plate over, smiling at his wife.

John thanked her quietly as he passed her his own plate. He looked up in time to meet her eyes, and she smiled warmly at him. Her blonde hair had more silver in it than John remembered, and he didn't think he had ever noticed the lines etched across her face before, but everything else about his mother was wonderfully familiar. In her presence John didn't think he could ever feel like an adult: he was and would remain her child. This thought calmed him.

Finally, the plates had been left in the sink to soak, and his mom had returned to the table. John looked up and noticed every one of his family members looking at him. Oh God. He wasn't ready. Telling all of them at once was a mistake. It would be chaos. Their charming breakfast together would be shattered, and perhaps this peace would never be found again.

Now or never, Green. You can do this. Other John's voice sounded crystal clear and reassuring in his mind. Bald John's resolve steeled, and he found his voice.

"I have something I need to tell you all. It… will probably come as something of a shock."

Nate chuckled. "Have you heard the way you talk now, Johnny? All formal and English-like. They put something in the water over there to make you talk like that?"

Bald John gave Nate a tight smile. He extinguished the brief flare of annoyance. It wasn't his brother's fault; he wasn't to know how important John's announcement was.

"Let him finish, Nathan," his mom said. She motioned for John to continue. He tried to give her a grateful look, but he didn't think the muscles in his face were working.

Adrenaline and terror surged through his veins. His heart beat erratically in his chest, his hands shook, and he was reminded of the feeling he had before taking a free kick in the final moments of a Swoodilypoopers match. The world slowed to a standstill as the words finally formed on his tongue.

"I'm gay."

No preamble. No nothing. He had said it. His family had heard him. He was free of the burden that had been weighing him down for months. They knew. John felt fantastic in the second it took for the words to leave his mouth and be processed by the other people around the table. Then the air in the room shifted, and John remembered that he still had their responses to be worried about.

John's eyes locked onto his father's. They looked at each other steadily for a beat. Finally, as though in slow motion, Richard's lips parted and he drew breath to speak.

"Boys, could you leave us please?" His eyes had left John's and he looked at Nate, Matt, and Myles in turn.

John wasn't sure how to feel about that response. He supposed it was to be expected that his father wouldn't want to have an audience for whatever it was he wanted to say, but it made John nervous all the same. Matt and Nate stood obediently and left the room with only minimal hesitation. They both looked back at John for a moment before closing the kitchen door behind them.

Myles, however, hadn't moved. John looked at him tentatively and saw an expression of confusion written all over his features.

"How long have you been…?" Myles asked. The words were clearly an effort.

"I don't know," John replied honestly.

John had actually given this question a lot of thought in the past few months, but he still had no tangible answer. He supposed he had always been gay, but he had never been attracted to another man before he met Other John. He had never been attracted to anyone, really, before he met Other John. Certainly not in the same way. The only conclusion that John could draw was that real love – attraction, lust, devotion, respect, care and admiration all at once – was very rare and should be treasured in whatever form it took. He loved Other John. He had no plan to love anyone else. So it didn't matter to him how he felt about men or women in general.

"You don't know?" Myles repeated. The edge in Myles’ voice wasn’t anger. If anything, it sounded like he was hurt. Offended, maybe. "What about Lindsay? Were you gay when you married her?"

John flinched. "I don't know," he replied so quietly that he could barely hear his own voice.

“That’s fucked up, John.”

"Myles!" Richard's voice cut like a knife through the air, and his tone of reproach took John by surprise. "That's enough. Your mother and I need to speak with John alone."

Myles pushed himself up from the table, his gaze never leaving John. “She deserves so much better than you.” Without waiting for a response, Myles turned and left.

John felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but he fought them down. The truth of Myles’ words left John feeling heavy and stunned, like he’d just suffered a nasty right-hook. It was understandable that Myles would jump to Lindsay’s defence. He had, in a few well-chosen sentences, cut right to the heart of John's insecurities and his own feelings of failure regarding his relationship with his ex-wife. Myles wasn't quite being fair, of course. John's relationship with Lindsay had never been perfect, and had already ended before he ever met Other John. Even so, John felt the familiar guilt crash over him.

John was good at masking his emotions; it was a point of pride for him. On this occasion, however, he feared he was too far gone to hide from his own parents. Shaking breaths rattled through his lungs, until they finally slowed and steadied. At last, he raised his eyes to look at his parents in turn. They were in their respective seats at the head and foot of the table, with John sitting between them. He was sixteen again and had broken one of the living room windows. His parents had sat with him at the same table, in the same seats, to discuss a reasonable punishment. On that occasion John had waxed poetic about what he saw as an appropriate means of compensating them for the damage. Now, however, John couldn't bring himself to speak for fear of what they might say in return.

Instead, he began to bite his nails. It was a habit he had dropped many years ago, but he sometimes fell back into it in moments of intense stress. The tension was all just too much for him; giving himself something to do with his hands felt better.

"Don't bite your nails, sweetie," Sheila said absently.

It seemed to John that she had said it out of instinct – she had certainly said it to him enough times during his adolescence. Some kind of maternal desire to clean up her son's manners would always override everything else. He dropped his hand back into his lap.

"Sorry, Mom," he said, just like he had every other time she'd ever reprimanded him.

"Honey," his mother finally said, her tone shifting, "where did this come from? It just… feels so out of the blue. You kind of blindsided us."

"I know," John said. How could he begin to explain it to them? He wanted to tell them about Other John, but he was afraid that it might be too much too soon.

"Did you meet someone?" Sheila asked. Because of course. She was his mother; of course she would ask whether or not he met someone. John felt suddenly stupid for assuming he could keep something as important as Other John secret from her.

"Yes," he admitted, smiling in spite of himself.

"Can you tell us about him?" she asked.

John found it surprisingly easy to talk about Other John. In fact, it was a joy. He had wanted for so long to talk to someone about the monumental changes that he had undergone in the past six months. He wanted nothing more than to talk about Other John and share his love for the man with the other people in his life. So he told his mother about their first meeting.

Bald John had been so unsure of himself. Here was a young recruit from Liverpool. This Other John was supposed to be the one to turn the whole team around. What if Bald John couldn't keep up? But his fears had been unfounded. He told his mother about the most amazing practice he had ever had. Bald John had felt their connection from the moment they began to play together, but he hadn't been able to understand his feelings for Other John at the time. He vividly remembered looping his arm around Other John's shoulder as they walked back towards the tunnel. His skin had been on fire from the contact. It was a completely foreign experience. He remembered brushing his hand through Other John's hair and feeling utterly bereft when the man side-stepped away from him. He had made a mental note to avoid touching him as much as possible as it clearly made him uncomfortable.

This had proven surprisingly difficult. When Other John scored his first goal for the Swoodilypoopers, Bald John's desire to hug the man completely overrode his common sense. It continued to happen. At every turn Other John's presence threw John off, to the point that he was doing and saying completely rash, uncalculated things out of an insatiable desire to be in the man's proximity. It nearly drove him mad until a very cold December practice. Everything started out with their usual banter and casual flirting, but by the end of it Bald John had found himself straddling his co-striker and desperately fighting the urge to kiss the man right there on the County Ground pitch. It was only then that Bald John understood with perfect clarity the nature of his feelings towards Other John. And this too nearly drove him mad until they eventually managed to get over their baggage and admit their feelings to one another.

John edited and extrapolated the story of his relationship with Other John to suit the parts of it that he knew his mother would want to hear, while keeping the more intimate details of their relationship relatively vague.

Sheila only interjected once or twice to ask clarifying questions or make small comments. By the end of his story, John felt that his mother was completely enraptured.

"Oh sweetheart. It's not what I would have imagined for you, and I'm sorry that you and Lindsay couldn't work things out. But I'm so happy that you're happy. You know that's all we've ever wanted, don't you?" she said, patting a hand against John's cheek. John smiled at his mother. He couldn't begin to express the gratitude he felt towards her.

"I know," he said, his voice unsteady with emotion. "Thanks, Mom."

Sheila leaned over and kissed the top of Bald John's head like she used to when he was a boy. Then she drew herself back into her chair and looked at her husband evenly, as though daring him to disagree. Throughout John's story, Richard had remained silent.

"Dad?" John asked tentatively.

"You're our son," his father said firmly. "You will always be our son and we will always love you, especially through what must be a very confusing time for you." John very much wanted to point out that he wasn't the least bit confused, but he understood that his father was trying to be supportive, so he let the man continue. "But John… this… it could ruin you."

This wasn't the response John had been expecting, and for a moment he was utterly perplexed. "What do you mean?"

"What do I mean?" Richard sounded genuinely irate. "This could ruin your career. You're a professional soccer player, Johnny! There are no gay people in profession sports, and do you know why? It's not because they don't exist. It's because they're smart enough to keep their mouths shut."

Richard sat back in his chair and put one hand over his eyes. When he sat back up and continued speaking, all aggression in his tone was gone. He sounded sad. Almost afraid.

"Johnny, do you know about Justin Fashanu?"

John felt like his father had punched him hard in the stomach. The wind rushed out of him, and tears sprung unbidden to his eyes. This was not the direction he had expected the conversation to go. "Yes." John's voice was barely above a whisper. He didn't want to talk about Justin Fashanu. He spent quite a lot of effort trying to not think about Justin Fashanu. "Of course I know about him."

"Who is he?" Sheila asked, confused by the shift in the conversation and the abruptly sombre tone.

John took a breath and explained. "Fashanu was an English soccer player in the '80s and '90s. He was excellent, one of those natural talents. A few of his goals are still in the history books as some of the most spectacular Premier League soccer that's ever been played. At the height of his career he was traded for over a million pounds. He had the kind of skill that most of us can only pray for." John sighed. "He was also gay…"

John didn't think he could finish the story. It had been haunting him ever since he and Other John had gotten together. It made him feel physically ill. He couldn't speak it out loud. Richard seemed to recognize that John had told as much of Fashanu's story was he was able. He took over for his son.

"Eventually, he came out to the press," Richard explained to his wife. "The first and only openly gay soccer player. And his career deteriorated from there. He was bounced from team to team, vilified in the press, abused by his teammates and by supporters. He went from Premier League Newcastle to a non-league Scottish team over the course of only a couple years. He was an outcast. And the abuse…. the accusations… it was too much. He hung himself in '98."

John was a little surprised that his dad knew so much about English soccer, though he supposed the story of Fashanu was an infamous one. It was a cautionary tale for anyone stupid enough to try and follow in his footsteps. John couldn't prevent a tear from escaping out of the corner of his eye.

"Oh God…" Sheila sounded horrified, and certainly not without reason. The story was a disheartening one to say the least.

John looked up at his father, his face composed once more. It won't be like that, John wanted to say. Things are different now. Better. He desperately wanted to believe that it was true. Then he thought about Myles. His own brother was ashamed of him. He also thought about Beef Stock and what he had said to Other John at their dinner party. He felt a wave of nausea at the memory.

 _It will be okay when we come out. It won't matter that we're gay._ The words were on John's tongue, but he couldn't find the strength to believe them. "We're not going to come out," John said instead.

He hated that it was true.

* * *

John wandered into the living room following his exhausting conversation with his parents. In the end they had both hugged him and reminded him again to keep his secret close to his chest. John knew that he and Other John had already agreed not to come out, but something about hearing it from his parents… it was like the final nail in the coffin. Or the closet.

He leaned in the doorway of the living room, watching his youngest brother. Nate was watching TV and playing on his phone at the same time. The sight made John smile.

"Hey, Nate," he said from the doorway.

Nate sat up when he noticed John and immediately turned off the TV. He shifted himself on the couch to look over at him. "Hey," he replied. John walked into the room and sat down next to his brother. While he was trying to think of the right thing to say, Nate beat him to it. "So, you're gay."

It was more of a statement than a question, but Bald John nodded his assent anyway.

"That's weird," Nate said, frowning in confusion. "Were you, like, always gay? Because Lindsay's sort of, female, dude."

John looked at his brother earnestly. "It's complicated. Lindsay and I weren't right for each other."

"Because you're gay?" Nate asked. He had exactly as much tact as John remembered.

"There were a lot of reasons why we didn't work out, but I expect my… sexuality played a role." Nate chuckled at John's use of the word sexuality. John tried very hard not to roll his eyes.

"Hey, I'm not judging, man. Paul from my English class is gay too," Nate said, as though that was in any way relevant.

"Okay," John replied slowly.

"Yup," Nate continued, "doesn't matter to me who you have sex with."

John pulled a disgusted face. "Charming, Nathan, thank you." He drew himself up from the couch, keen to move the topic away from his sex life. "I'm going to go for a walk. Fancy coming?"

"Do you just ask me if I fancied doing something? You really have gone dark side, Johnny. But nah, I'm cool."

John smiled at his littlest brother. "See you at dinner, yeah?"

"You bet." Nate put his feet up on the section of the couch that John had just vacated and returned his attention to his cell phone.

John began to exit the living room before he turned back towards his brother. "Oh and Nate? Thanks."

Nate just shrugged, but John thought he caught a small smile in the surly teen's expression. "See you at dinner," was all the reply Nate gave as John left the room.

John had been intending to walk into town. He didn't need to buy anything, but it was a solid three miles, and he could use the excuse to get out of the house for a couple hours. But John never made it past the gravel driveway. Instead, he noticed the old tire swing dangling from the large oak tree outside their house. John had never used it much as a kid – he had always thought swings were boring compared to the action of playing sports – but he wandered over to it anyway. The outside of the tire was sun-stained and cracking in places, while the inner circle had accumulated years of rainwater to form a stagnant pool. John tipped the tire upside-down, forcing the water onto the dirt at his feet. When the tire was nearly empty, John mounted it and began to swing lightly, pushing it gently with his legs.

After a moment, John reached into his pocket and withdrew his phone. He dialled the familiar number with ease. The phone rang and rang into his ear. Finally, it cut off, and Other John's familiar voicemail clicked to life. "Heya, this is John. Sorry I missed your call, but you can leave a message if you like. Cheers! The tone beeped. John thought about just hanging up and calling him back later, but he had an overwhelming urge to talk to Other John, even if it was only one-sided.

"Hey," he said into the answering machine, "it's me. I guess you're busy. More likely you're in the Giraffe and didn't hear your phone. You really are terrible at picking up. Anyway, just thought I'd give you a call." John paused. "I did it; I just told them. It was… okay. I guess. I don’t feel – I'm shattered, honestly. I wish –“ John’s voice cracked and he stopped. “We can talk about it later." He paused again. "I miss you. Speak soon."

He hung up quickly after that. He was having an emotional day and worried that if he stayed on the line for too long he would start crying into Other John's voicemail out of sheer exhaustion. He flipped his phone through his hands, still swinging gently on the tire.

It was only when Matt spoke from behind him that John realized he had been there.

"Was that Other John?" Matt looked perfectly calm as he walked over to John and leaned against the oak tree that was supporting the swing. John couldn't hide the shock on his face.

"What do you mean?" He tried to feign a calm that he didn't feel.

"I mean," Matt was smiling slightly as he spoke, "was that Other John's voicemail you were just talking into?"

"I… you were eavesdropping on my phone call?"

Matt shrugged as though this was hardly newsworthy. "But it was Other John, wasn't it? Is he the one?"

John thought about continuing to feign ignorance, but he was far too tired. Instead he nodded. "How did you know?"

Matt was still smiling. John found it mildly off-putting. "It wasn't hard to work it out. I mean, I wouldn't have necessarily guessed you were gay, but now that you've said it, I can't say it's all that surprising."

"I… what?" John was taken aback. "Really? You seem to be the only member of this family who thinks so."

"Yeah, well, I'm the only member of this family who's been paying any attention."

John waited for his brother to continue, but when no explanation seemed forthcoming, he huffed. "Okay, so what exactly have you been seeing that no one else has?"

Matt absently ran his hand through his hair. "It's nothing major," he said, "just a few little things. I mean, when you were with Lindsay, for example, it never quite felt right. I couldn't put my finger on what the problem was for the longest time. It just felt sort of off. It was only when Myles and Jenny got together that I figured it out. Have you seen them together much? Have you ever noticed how they are with one another?"

John had seen them together quite a lot, but he had no idea what Matt was talking about. Matt could evidently see John's confusion in his face, because he sighed and began speaking as though explaining something to a child.

"They look at each other. All the time. Like, if no one's speaking, their eyes will just seek each other out as though there's nothing else in the room worth looking at. And you can tell they're in love even when they're not in the same room. Myles will always tell anecdotes that involve Jenny. Or he'll reference her opinion or taste in conversation as though it's his own. It's the kind of weird stuff that only people who are obsessed with each other do." Matt paused and adjusted his position against the tree. "You and Lindsay were never like that. You seemed to like her, you were nice to each other and everything, but there was no spark. You never brought her up in conversation just because you thought she was the most interesting topic of conversation. I wasn't going to say anything about it when you were together, because I figured you must have had your reasons for marrying her. You just never seemed all that happy. Then when you got divorced… I don't know. It just kind of seemed like the right decision to me."

John was staggered by the information he was being given, but Matt still hadn't finished.

"And then you met Other John." Matt chuckled at little to himself. "Johnny, I wish you could hear the way you talk about this guy. You always tell stories about him! I feel like I know him just because you talk about him almost every single time you call. It's remarkable, you know, how much you can learn about the people in someone's life by listening. Really listening. You've talked about John Bennett more in the past six months than you talked about Lindsay in three years. Doesn't take a genius…" Matt shrugged, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

John was at an utter loss for words. "It does," he finally said. "You, Matty, are a genius."

Matt smiled, but looked unconvinced. He never was good at accepting praise. This was probably because he preferred to be permanently on the sidelines. You get a better view of what's going on from the sidelines. "Anyway, it's just an observation," he said, "but you're clearly in love with this guy. So I just wanted to let you know that I'm happy for you. I hope he's worthy of you."

John laughed. "He is. He's much better than me, honestly. Not sure what he sees in me."

"I can think of a couple personality traits that aren't totally despicable in you, big bro," Matt teased.

"Cheers, Matty. Always good to know you've got my back."

"Anytime. Oh, by the way! I meant to mention –"

Matt was cut off by the brief sounds of raised voices from inside the house, followed by the opening and slamming of the front door. The boys looked up to see Myles standing on the front porch with his rucksack over his shoulder. He locked eyes with John, gave him a scornful expression, and stormed to his truck. He threw his bag onto the seat next to him and was tearing across the driveway a moment later. Small pieces of gravel kicked up behind the tires of the car and sprayed across the front garden as the truck accelerated down the road and out of sight.

John sighed. All in all his family had been more supportive than not, but he was really ready to go home.

* * *

* * *

 


	3. The County Ground

* * *

John bounced a little on his toes, near-giddy with excitement as he watched the arrivals board at Heathrow airport.

Flight BA267 from Charleston. Status: Arrived. 

John's eyes flitted intermittently between the sign and the door that led to the baggage claim and the gate beyond. Slowly the hall began to fill with travellers. They pushed their carts and dragged their suitcases through a sea of other people. Tourists stopped in the middle of traffic to read the signs above their heads, agitated parents ushered their children through the crowd, and businessmen met their car services. John scanned each of their faces, searching. Then he saw the familiar bald head and light brown moustache. A grin broke across John's face. The relief and pleasure he felt at the mere sight of Bald John was a little overwhelming. He watched Bald John walk slowly through the crowd. Without calling out to him, John began to inch his way through the crowd, his eyes never leaving Bald John's profile. He extracted himself from the throng of people and crept up carefully behind his boyfriend.

"Hey there, handsome," John said in a low voice, his lips just inches from Bald John's ear.

Bald John whipped around, momentarily caught off guard. His look of surprise morphed quickly into recognition – and then back into surprise.

"You came to meet me at the airport? That's so sweet; you didn't have to do that."

John simply shrugged and smiled at the travel-weary form in front of him. "I wanted to. Besides, now you get some company on the train back home."

John had needed to wake up at an ungodly hour in order to make it down to London in time to meet the flight, but it was worth it. More than anything else, he sincerely wanted to do something nice for Bald John. They hadn't had much of a chance to speak in depth after his coming out, but the whole experience seemed to have exhausted him. John had kicked himself profusely when he received Bald John voicemail three nights ago. He had indeed been in the Giraffe and utterly failed to notice that his mobile was ringing. In his message Bald John had sounded so tired and lonely that John nearly burst into tears right there in the pub. They had talked a little since then, but neither of them was particularly good at maintaining a relationship through the phone. In the past few days it had become clear to them that they had been apart for far too long.

Bald John broke into a grateful smile. "Thank you."

Without seeming to think about it, he reached out and pulled John into a warm, affectionate embrace. John stiffened. Much as he wanted to reciprocate, much as he wanted to stroke a hand down the back of Bald John's head and kiss him in welcome, he thought it probably wasn't wise. In fact, John suddenly felt acutely paranoid, as though every single person in the arrivals terminal was staring at them. Bald John felt his unease, and immediately shifted his weight away from John. Their tender moment had seamlessly transformed into a much looser, much less intimate greeting. Bald John patted his back firmly twice before he pulled away and they were parted. To a passerby, they would have looked like nothing more than a pair of friends casually greeting each other.

It was for the best, but John couldn't help the horrible feeling that twisted in his gut. _Better get used to it, Bennett. This is the way it's always going to be._

The two of them walked side-by-side – though far enough apart so as not to appear too familiar – through the airport and down to the underground. Swindon wasn't all that far from London, but it was a slow, meandering journey by train. John had often thought that it might be worth getting a car, but he had never been sufficiently motivated. Public transport served England well, and until recently he had been living in a big enough city that driving had never been necessary. Increasingly, however, John thought that at least one of them should be able to drive, and Bald John would never do it. He had said on many occasions that he had no desire to drive a manual, let alone try to navigate roundabouts, which dominated the country and seemed to utterly frustrate him.

After nearly an hour of travel through central London, they were boarding the train from London to Swindon. They wandered from car to car until they finally found an unoccupied section of the train. They dropped their various bags onto the seats surrounding them, to ensure they wouldn't be disturbed. Only after their privacy had been established did they feel safe to discuss Bald John's experience in West Virginia.

John listed rapturously to Bald John's account of his conversations with his younger brothers. Relief flooded through him the more he heard about them. Matt, it seemed, had been particularly supportive. This had evidently meant a great deal to Bald John, as he spoke about his middle brother with unreserved affection. When John heard about Myles and his reaction to the news, however, his good humour fell. Anger burst into his chest when Bald John described his older brother's reaction and accusations regarding Lindsay. The injustice and double standard of it made John want to scream. Or cry. He wasn't sure which. Bald John even tried to explain Myles' motives in the context of his friendship with Lindsay. This argument didn't hold the least bit of water with John; would Myles have been half as indignant if Bald John had started a new relationship with a woman? Somehow John didn't think so. Much as he wanted to rail against Myles on Bald John's behalf, he knew better. Bigot or not, Myles was still Bald John's family, and Bald John's loyalty to his family was unwavering.

John was even a little upset about Richard's reaction. He could, of course, understand the rationale for vehemently cautioning them against coming out publicly, but he was a little irritated nonetheless. John didn't like to have his life dictated to him, particularly not by strangers. It didn't much matter to him that Bald John's father had only been repeating what the two of them had already agreed. John knew this opinion was petty, however, so he listened patiently while Bald John finished his story and kept his opinions to himself.

"I can do my own laundry, Bennett." John looked over his shoulder to see Bald John leaning against the kitchen counter, watching him load the washing machine.

They had only arrived home a few hours ago, but John had already helped Bald John unpack, gathered up his laundry, and set about washing it for him. He knew it was unnecessary, but he felt Bald John deserved a little extra kindness.

"I know that," John replied a little sheepishly, "I just thought I'd, you know, lend a hand or something."

Bald John smiled at him affectionately and went about making a mug of tea for each of them. He didn't even bother to ask John if he wanted one. It was a good assumption – as a rule John didn't turn down offers for tea.

John finished setting away the laundry and rose from his crouching position in front of the washing machine. He moved back across the kitchen and leaned against the counter, watching Bald John pour water into the kettle and set it to boil.

John spoke again. "Did you fancy doing something this evening?" he asked.

"Like what?" Bald John replied from the other side of the counter as he dropped a tea bag in each mug and filled them with the freshly boiled water.

"I don't know… Cteve texted me a little while ago. He's apparently having some kind of house party. Or he's going to a house part of a friend of a friend. Or… something. I don't know, there's a party of some kind at a house of some kind and he invited us."

"He invited us to the party of a friend of a friend?" Bald John asked dryly. He fished the teabag out John's mug, squeezed it gently, threw it away, and handed the mug to John with practiced ease.

"Thanks," John said as he accepted the tea. "That's Cteve for you, I guess," he continued. "Do you want to go?"

Bald John pulled a face that was immediately recognizable as the there is nothing in the world I want to do less face. John laughed.

"Yeah, I didn't think so. It was worth asking, anyway."

"You're welcome to go along if you want." Bald John smiled. "But I'm still a little jet lagged and it'll be a minor miracle if I can stay awake during the match tomorrow anyway. Not sure I want to add a hangover to the mix. Especially since I promised Manager John before I left that I'd be back and ready to play in tomorrow's match." Bald John took a long sip from his own mug.

"I don't know how Cteve manages to keep it up," John chuckled. "I'm still recovering from the poker night four days ago! Besides, take it from me, being hungover at practice last week was no fun. So, yeah, I think I'll skip the party too. Actually, that reminds me, Manager John said he's coming to the match tomorrow too. I don't think he's been too impressed with our recent… downturn." 

The word was bitter in John's mouth. Of the three matches they had played since Bald John went on holiday, they had drawn one of them, lost two of them, and entered into their worst slump of the season. While some of this could easily be attributed to having temporarily lost their best forward, it was a paltry excuse. As a team they all needed to be on top form, and if they only had one player holding their side together, then that was a very serious problem. As such, Manager John had been making more and more appearances at practices and had promised to coach them more thoroughly through the next few matches, which were critical to securing their position in League One next season. As it was, they were currently sitting at third on the league table with a game in hand. With only six matches left in the season, it was vital to win their upcoming match the next day.

"I suppose so close to the end of the season, with so much at stake, it's understandable that Manager John would get a bit more hands-on," Bald John said, though his tone sounded a little guilty. John supposed he felt that he had let the team down by going home when he did. John sighed softly. That was so like him: always first to blame himself rather than think ill of anyone else.

John moved around to the other side of the counter and looped an arm affectionately around Bald John's waist, his fingers running in small circles across his lower back.

"Come on," John said with a small smile, "we've got the tea, I'll get the blanket, and we can watch a film. But you're not allowed to go to sleep, yeah? No sleeping until a reasonable hour. Otherwise your jet lag will be much, much worse, and it won't do to have our star player falling asleep during half-time tomorrow."

Bald John laughed a little, but it abruptly morphed into a badly concealed yawn.

"Right, we may need to upgrade to coffee," John said, dropping his arm from Bald John's waist and going to fetch the cafetiere.

* * *

 

As it turned out, John's instincts about Cteve's house party had been very good. Cteve still hadn't arrived at the stadium by the time the team was filing onto the pitch for the pre-match warm-up. The Johns jogged a little to stretch their stiff muscles and began to pass a ball gently between them. Mid-way through their warm-up, Manger John approached them.

"No sign of Cteve yet, Coach?" John asked. He caught the football with the inside of his left foot, kicked it gracefully into the air and dribbled it from one knee to the other before letting it drop and passing it back to Bald John. 

Manager John frowned at the mention of Cteve's name. "No," he bit out. "I don't know why I expect anything else. You know he was hungover at practice last week?"

John felt a small burn of shame for not having felt at full health himself that morning. Even so, he had the good sense to feign surprise and disapproval.

The team's warm up finished a few minutes later, and they returned to the locker room. There was still no sign of Cteve. They all stood around nervously for the remaining ten minutes before the start of the match, waiting for Manager John to give his pre-match pep talk. Manager John was a big fan of these pep talks, and gave at least one any time he was in town for a match. They all gathered around in a semi-circle like children at story-time.

"So, Swoodilypoopers," Manager John began in his usual tone of gleeful anticipation, "as you know-"

The metallic banging noise of the door burst through the room and killed the remainder of Manager John's sentence. The whole team looked over and watched Cteve walk over the threshold.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," Cuthbert said in a whisper loud enough to be heard by every member of the team.

John was forced to agree with Cuthbert's sentiment; Cteve looked positively terrible. He wore dark sunglasses and a loose, slightly stained white t-shirt under a dark brown leather jacket. He inched through the room as though the slightest movement was an effort. His hair was on end, he looked pale, and he stank like some horrible combination of day-old beer, body odour, and cigarettes. It was enough to make Fat Lucas gag as Cteve shouldered past him towards his locker.

John also thought, with a flare of anger on Manager John's behalf, that Cteve wasn't demonstrating anything close to the amount of contrition that the situation called for.

He simply kept his head down as he opened his locker. He didn't even bother to remove his sunglasses as he began to strip down. The rest of the team could only watch in a stunned silence.

"Do you know what time it is?" Manager John asked. All thoughts of his pep talk had clearly been abandoned. John had never heard such a tone from his coach before. Their usually jovial, kind-hearted and enthusiastic manager was gone. His voice was clipped and abrupt, as though he was trying to clamp down on his anger.

"Yeah, sorry Coach. My alarm didn't go off."

Cteve's apology rang insincere, and his explanation false. It was plain to everyone in the room that he was horrendously hungover. He continued stripping down in the silence that ensued, but when he pulled an unwashed jersey from his locker and put it on, Manager John flared back up.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" he asked, his voice still sharp with rage.

"Getting kitted up, Coach." The insolence in his tone made John cringe.

"Like. Hell. You. Are."

Finally, the severity of the situation seemed to register in Cteve's addled mind. He finally removed his sunglasses (revealing the bloodshot eyes behind them) and looked at the livid face of their manager. The rest of the team shuffled awkwardly, caught in the crossfire between the two of them.

"Fine." Cteve removed his jersey and shoved it back into his locker unceremoniously. "Whatever. It's not like I would have gotten off the bench anyway now, with Bald John back in the line-up."

John had to bite the inside of his cheek to suppress a cry of outrage. He glanced around. Bald John was looked intently at the floor, his ears having gone a tell-tale red. Manager John, in contrast, was glaring daggers at Cteve. Everyone else looked angry and uncomfortable in equal measure. They were saved – quite literally – by the electronic bell that rang through the locker room to signal that it was time to begin the match.

"Patrick," Manager John said curtly, turning to where Patrick was standing, "take the Swoodilypoopers out to begin the match. I'll come join you in a minute."

Patrick nodded. "Yes, Coach. Come on, lads!"

John and the others roused themselves and followed their Assistant Coach out of the locker room. John briefly caught Cteve's eye as he passed. John wanted to impart some kind of encouragement, but he had none to give. He was disappointed in Cteve, and felt he probably deserved whatever wrath Manager John wanted to hand down.

By the half-time whistle, they were one-nil up against Lincoln City. John should have been pleased with the score, but all he could feel was disgust. He was utterly appalled by the way they had been playing. Their tactics had gone out the window, and the whole team was playing with nothing but aggressive tackles, poor challenges, and a lot of unchecked power. The method had managed to get Leeroy a fluke header off a corner kick, but Lincoln City had three chances for every one the Swoodilypoopers had. They also held the lion's share of possession, and more than twice as many attempts on goal. All else being equal, Swindon Town should have been down three-nil based on the way they were playing. It was atrocious, and they all knew it.

They filed into the locker room frustrated and in low spirits. The first thing John noticed was Cteve sitting on one of the wooden benches in the centre of the room. He was back in his white t-shirt and jeans, looking mutinous. Manager John, who had been going red in the face yelling at them from the sidelines during the first half, had entered ahead of the rest of the team. He was leaning against a row of lockers, watching the players as they marched in.

"Congrats on the goal, Leeroy. It was a great header," Manager John said when he saw Leeroy enter.

"Thanks, Coach, but it's not like we have a lot to be proud of," Lee replied. He shuffled a little as he walked. Even though Lee had managed to score, John didn't think he'd ever seen the man so subdued. It was a little disconcerting to see him without the usual bounce in his step.

Manager John didn't reply to Lee's comment until the last member of the team had entered the room and Patrick had closed the door behind them. "Well," he said at last, pushing himself off the row of lockers to come and stand in front of his team, "I'm not going to argue with that assessment, Lee. Boys, you're better than this! We should be able to beat Lincoln City without breaking a sweat. But this? It's embarrassing."

No one could disagree. Silence stretched for a moment around the team. John took a swig of his water bottle and tried to focus on the feeling of water quenching his thirst instead of the feeling of shame that was twisting in his gut. He felt a slight brushing on the side of his knee and saw the back of Bald John's hand resting against his leg. It was the most comfort they could offer each other in such a public setting and it was just enough to calm John's feelings of inadequacy – at least a little.

"Boys," Manager John continued, "I'm not liking the direction this team is heading. I know it's the end of the season. I know you're all exhausted, but we are this close to securing our promotion to League One. Do we want to fall down at the final hurdle? This," John gestured a little wildly around the room, "won't do. Unnecessary slide tackles, failed crosses, clambering defence, turning up late to matches hungover. It won't do. I won't have it. That is not the Swoodilypooper way. I don't want to hear about any more altercations of the bus, or fistfights at dinner parties. I. Will. Not. Have. It."

John felt the blood rush to his cheeks as his shame deepened. He wasn't sure how Manager John had heard about his fight with Beef Stock, or how much he knew about the circumstances of it, but he had never regretted his actions more than he did in that moment. Manager John was right – what was happening to their beloved team?

"All due respect and everything, Coach, but it's a bit different." Ginger Rampage's voice cut through the quiet tension in the room.

"What is, Ginger?" Manager John asked.

"I mean, alright, a bad challenge is a bad challenge. And we've obviously not been playing our best out there today. But that is nothing compared to the disgrace of turning up to a match ten minutes before the starting whistle stinking like a brothel."

John shut his eyes in irritation. Ginger was plainly trying to rile Cteve up, and he was blatantly missing the point that Manager John was trying to make. It was enough to put John's teeth on edge. The worst part was that Cteve was guaranteed to take the bait. Sure enough, he rose quickly and squared off against Ginger.

"You really want to go there, Rampage? You're the one who beats up inanimate objects when we lose and you want to lecture me on professionalism? That's bloody rich!"

Ginger moved forward so quickly that John was certain he would deck Cteve across the face.

"That's enough!" Bald John's firm voice rang out across the locker room. To an outside observer he might have appeared quite calm, but John knew better. He was clearly enraged; he was just much better at controlling it than most people. Cteve and Ginger paused to look over at him. "Manager John is right," he continued, "this can't continue. We're supposed to be a team. This is… disgraceful." Bald John turned toward Cteve and continued in his calm, measured tone. "Cteve, you arrived late because you were hungover. We all know it. Admit your mistake, apologize, and pay us the respect of not doing it again." Cteve finally had the good grace to look a little ashamed. He broke eye contact with Bald John and looked at the floor.

"I'm sorry," Cteve said at last to the room at large. For the first time that day he looked genuinely apologetic. Fitz squeezed his shoulder in forgiveness and Fat Lucas patted his back.

"And Ginger," Bald John turned away from Cteve to lock eyes with Ginger, "there is no need to point fingers and lay blame. All of us have been playing poorly, and all of us have been losing sight of what this team is supposed to stand for." John honestly thought that of all people, Bald John was the one who had least lost sight of what the team stood for – though John was admittedly a little biased. "And you know what they say about people in glass houses," Bald John continued, "So let's all put down the stones and remember that we have a job to do."

The air in the room shifted after Bald John finished speaking. Everyone breathed a little easier. Ginger took a few steps back, and the tension slowly fell out of his muscles. Even Manager John's colour had returned to normal, and he seemed satisfied. If anything, he looked a little proud as he gave Bald John a small smile.

"Alright boys," he said at length, "that's enough chat. Now go and play some damned good football."

The crowd was singing as they made their way back onto the pitch and took up their starting positions. John's head, however, was still firmly in the locker room, re-living the events of the afternoon. Instinctively, he looked over at Bald John. It had become a habit of his to seek out his co-striker's eyes in the moment preceding the start whistle. Usually they exchanged grins of nervous excitement. That afternoon, however, Bald John's face was set in grim determination. When he locked eyes with John, his message was clear: we'll deal with everything else later. For now, let's win this thing. John nodded his agreement. A second later the whistle blew and the match resumed.

* * *

For all their attempts to rally, the second half of the match was ultimately as disappointing as the first. Bald John had put a plaster on an open wound – it was enough to allow them all to play together, but not enough to heal them. The team was frustrated, and they allowed it to seep into their game. The Johns were stuck flanking the defenders for the majority of the second half, as Ginger, Beef Stock, and the rest of them seemed utterly incapable of clearing the ball. In the 80th minute Lucas was forced to make a save. He collapsed over the ball like he was shielding a grenade. A moment later he regrouped and pelted the ball out to midfield. It was to little avail; no sooner had Fitz put a touch to it, then a Lincoln striker dispossessed him, and they headed right back into the Swindon Town box.

John barely got a touch on the ball the entire time, and in the end they only just managed to hold on to their lead. Despite the fact that they had won, the atmosphere in the locker room that afternoon was as bad as it ever was after a loss. John left the stadium as soon as he got his things together. Standing outside in the parking lot was slightly better than standing inside the locker room.

He leaned against the wall of the stadium waiting for Bald John. Midway through getting changed, Manager John had requested Bald John, Leeroy and Voluptuous for the press conference. John could only hope that they would finish up quickly; he wasn't keen on spending any more time at the County Ground than he needed to that day. He watched the rest of the team leave the stadium one by one and walk down the road towards town. A few of them waved or nodded to him as they passed. When Fat Lucas walked by, he noticed John loitering and called out to him.

"OJ! I'm going to get pissed. You coming?" Lucas' tone was unsettling.

John shook his head a little as he answered. "Another time, maybe. I'm shattered."

Lucas just shrugged as though it made no different to him one way or the other. He turned down the road leading to the Giraffe and disappeared from sight. John was vaguely repulsed by Lucas' reaction to the events of the day, but he was also concerned. That hadn't been a casual offer to hang out at the pub; it was a demand to knock back shots until they were both paralytic.

John was distracted from his worries only a minute later by the sudden arrival of a friendly face. He could not have said where she had come from, but suddenly Hannah was there, right by his side. She mimicked his pose of crossed arms and leaned back, bracing her right foot against the wall.

"Well," she said slowly, "that was…"

"It was shite, Han." He looked over at her and smiled grimly. "It's okay. You can say it."

"It wasn't your best," she conceded.

John uncrossed his arms and looped his right arm around her shoulder affectionately. "I'm going to hate Peter's write up of the match, aren't I?"

"Yes," she replied, not even bothering to soften the blow, "I'm sorry, it's going to be brutal. Actually, you might want to avoid the Gazette entirely tomorrow. Some of the photos I took aren't exactly flattering."

"Brilliant," John said sarcastically. "I can always count on you to cheer me up."

"Anytime, OJ." 

John opened his mouth to ask when she thought Bald John would be finished, when an entirely new thought took hold of him. There was something different about Hannah. Her hair was wrapped up in a complicated mess of plaits and pins, to form an artistic bun at the back of her head. Her make-up was more striking than usual, and he had never seen the dress she was wearing before. It was a flattering deep green that cinched at the waist and plunged a little lower in the neckline than her usual business casual. All in all, she looked positively gorgeous. For no reason.

"Hannah," John said slowly, an idea dawning on him, "do you by any chance have a date tonight?"

Her eyes whipped up to meet his, and he watched her cheeks redden. "I don't see what business that is of yours." 

John laughed with excitement. "Oh babe, you've been holding out on me!"

Hannah shook her head a little in exasperation. "Now you're not allowed to make fun, you hear? I really like him. He's sweet, and funny, and much nicer than you."

"What did I do?" John asked indignantly. "Who is he? Tell me everything!"

"There's nothing to tell," she replied calmly, "We've been spending more time together recently while you've been off gallivanting with your boy." Instinctively John glanced around the empty parking lot to ensure they were still alone.

"We do not gallivant!" he said, his indignation growing.

"Not the point," Hannah reminded him. "Anyway, he asked me out for a drink a couple days ago. I said yes, so now he's taking me for a drink."

"Who!?" John demanded.

But John never needed an answer to his question. That moment Leeroy Williamson exited the stadium. He scanned the parking lot as though looking for something – or someone – and began walking towards them when he saw Hannah. John felt her pull away from him slightly, and he immediately dropped his arm from around her shoulder. He couldn't help noticing the way she leaned a little towards Lee once he had joined them.

He also couldn't help noticing Leeroy's appearance. The man looked more clean than John had ever seen him. His hair had been brushed, and his button down shirt and blazer were so crisp they might have come straight from an ironing board as opposed to the bottom of an ancient duffle bag.

"Hey," Lee said, with just a hint of awkward tension. He was ostensibly speaking to them both, but his eyes barely left Hannah long enough to acknowledge John's presence.

When the hell did this happen? John thought, utterly bemused.

"Hey," Hannah replied, "your goal was really great today. Everyone was singing for you in the stands." She smiled her winning smile at him. Lee's face instantly lit up in response, and any traces of his morose demeanour about the quality of the match vanished. John would have found the reaction hilarious if he hadn't been so busy being shocked.

"Thanks," he replied, "it was nothing special. I really only score occasionally."

"We'll see," John said under his breath. Hannah's head whipped around and she shot him a look of silent indignation. He could do nothing but beam back at her in impish delight at this new development. He was going to have so much fun with this.

"You ready to go?" Lee asked. Whether or not he had heard John's comment wasn't clear, but he had evidently decided to ignore whatever interchange had passed between the two of them.

"Yes," Hannah said, her smile firmly back in place. Lee offered her his arm, which she took.

She spared John one last backwards glance, mouthed something along the lines of I'll text you, and disappeared down the road. John was happy for his friends – he really was. Nevertheless, he felt a weight in his heart that it took him a moment to identify.

He spent the next ten minutes trying to figure out why he was jealous of Hannah and Leeroy.

"So, I go away for two measly weeks and the team just falls apart, humm?" Bald John said as they finally began the short walk home. His tone was light, but John could detect the agitation underneath. 

Bald John seemed to take it as a personal slight when the Swoodilypoopers didn't live up to his expectations. John was also upset, but he knew he was as much to blame as anyone else for the team's steady decline in morale, dedication, and professionalism. For one, he had been turning up late to every practice since he joined the team. For another, his commitment had undoubtedly been waning. The whole team, really, had grown complacent. They had been riding high on the best winning streak Swindon Town had seen in decades, and they were paying the price for it now.

John kicked a loose pebble in front of him and watched it skitter across the pavement. He wanted to talk to Bald John about his frustration and his guilt for letting down the team, but something stopped him. Bald John was just so dedicated. The things that had distracted the rest of the team and impacted their quality of play didn't seem to affect Bald John in the slightest. It made John feel inferior, and he hated it. 

"Hey," Bald John said, his tone much less biting than it had been a moment ago, "it's going to be okay. We won the match at least, and the rest of it… we'll figure it out."

"Which part?" John asked. He could feel frustration boiling in his chest.

"What do you mean?"

John looked up from the pavement and met the eyes of his bald namesake. I mean, which part exactly will we figure out? How to make a team of very different and very strong personalities get along? How to come out to the team, the press, and the rest of the world without ruining our lives? How to be in a professional and a romantic relationship at the same time? How to lie to almost everyone we know on a daily basis? Tell me, John, what part exactly are we going to figure out? John wanted to say all of that and more, but he swallowed the words and let out a breath. He wanted to say it all, but he knew it was pointless. He had no desire to start a pointless argument.

"Nothing," he said at last.

Bald John didn't respond, so they lapsed into silence as they continued down the road.

A few minutes later, they came upon Voluptuous, Alice, and one of their sons. The three of them emerged from one of the dirt paths that joined the main road. John thought they must have been enjoying a country walk on their way home from the match. They were walking a few feet ahead of the Johns, and didn't appear to have noticed them.

Alice was a familiar face among the Swoodilypoopers; John didn't think she had missed a home match all season. She was always there, like a personal talisman for Voluptuous. She was tall and dark, much like her husband. She also possessed the same quiet calm that Voluptuous had. In fact, Voluptuous was so soft-spoken that John sometimes didn't even notice him among the boisterous personalities of the rest of the team. If John were to really think about it, he envied Voluptuous a great deal. The man had his life figured out in a way that few others could claim.

Alice and Voluptuous were walking down the road on either side of their young son. They each held one of his hands and were swinging him into the air with every few steps. The boy's laughter filled the quiet country road until it was the only sound John could hear. The boy – John thought it might be their youngest, Philippe – eventually got bored of his parent's hands. He extracted himself from their grasp and began to run a little faster down the hill.

" _Faites gaffe, mon chou_!" Alice's soft voice called to him.

John heard Voluptuous mutter something to her in French, taking her hand in his. He leaned over to his wife and kissed her cheek affectionately. They continued to meander down the road, keeping a watchful eye on their child.

The sight made the weight in John's heart a little heavier. He could feel the short distance of space between his hand and Bald John's, but it felt unfathomable. He looked over to Bald John, and could see the same feeling mirrored in his eyes. Every single day John was forced to remind himself all over again that this was the way their life would always be. They would never be able to go out in pubic like Lee and Hannah, or exhibit their love for one another like Alice and Voluptuous. Quite suddenly, he was desperate to get away. He didn't want to watch what he couldn't have dangled in front of him.

John coughed a little to clear the tightness in his throat and turned to Bald John. "I… umm… I think I'm going to jog the rest of the way home. Just want to… clear my head a little."

The concern on Bald John's face grew more pronounced. "John –"

"I'm fine." John said, pre-empting Bald John's concern.

Bald John nodded, though his expression did not change. "Okay. I'll see you at home."

John reached out a fraction of an inch with the intention of putting a reassuring hand on Bald John's arm, but the movement died before it had begun. His hand hung for a moment in the air between them before it dropped back to his side. Without any further delay, John turned away, and his legs kicked into gear. Within moments he was overtaking the Pericards – first Alice and Voluptuous, and then their son. He even managed to give them a brief wave in greeting, before his momentum pushed him further down the road. 

The pounding of the pavement beneath his feet and the ache in his muscles was a welcome relief after the various stresses of the day. He knew he was overreacting to the sight of Alice and Voluptuous; it wasn't as though he hadn't seen them together dozens of times before. But John was just so tired – he was exhausted. He couldn't even justify it to himself. He had friends who cared about him, a sister who would move heaven and earth for him, and every night, he got to go home to a man who loved him. What did he have to complain about? The more John allowed his thoughts to catch up with his emotions, the more he realized he had behaved irrationally. Sure, his life was far from ideal, but it could be a great deal worse, and he had a lot to be thankful for.

His run slowed to a walk as he calmed down. He felt a little bit of embarrassment for his behaviour. One of the things John's prided himself on was his ability to identify the faults in his own character. Chief among these was the fact that John had a tendency to act on emotional instinct without fully considering the rational course of action, or the ramifications of his actions. It was a fault he had been carrying since childhood, and he had had limited success in attempting to curb his emotional instincts. Such was the case that afternoon, as he realized with no small amount of embarrassment that he had abandoned Bald John to walk the rest of the way home. He had been selfish. Bald John was clearly going through the exact same thing, but he had been able to control his emotions – a skill that John had not yet mastered.

He walked dejectedly up to the front door of their house and let himself in. Without bothering to get changed or put his bag upstairs, he sat down on the bottom stair and watched the front door, waiting for Bald John to come home.

Sure enough, he arrived a few minutes later. His key rustled in the lock for a moment before Bald John emerged. The door shut quietly behind him as he tossed his key into the bowl on the front table. 

"Hey," he said when he noticed John, "are you okay?"

Without a word, John rose from his position on the stairs, walked across the hall to Bald John, and captured him in a passionate, desperate kiss. It took Bald John a moment to process the sudden onslaught on his lips before he adjusted and melted against John. John tried to pour every ounce of love and apology into his movements. He tried to convey his gratitude, his devotion, and his love. He tried to say everything he didn't have the words for.

At one point, Bald John's lips drifted to John's ear. "I know," he whispered, and John knew he had been heard.

* * *

The sun was setting through the window on the far side of Bald John's bedroom. It filled the room with pink and amber light, bathing them both in the dying warmth of the day. They lay in a tangle of limbs and bed sheets, blissfully oblivious to the outside world. Out there things were complicated; there were rules and boundaries. In the safety of their home, they were free. 

Bald John was propped up slightly against the headboard and a small mountain of pillows. John's head was resting languidly on Bald John's chest, while Bald John's fingers made their way aimlessly through John's hair and around the curve of his jaw. Completely content for the first time in a long time, John felt the tantalizing tug of sleep on the edges of his consciousness. Not quite awake, not quite asleep, and with the soft beating of Bald John's heart in his ears, John wished he could freeze himself in that moment for hours. Reality, however, was a tenacious bastard. On that occasion it took the form of his own boyfriend.

"John?" Bald John's chest vibrated a little when he spoke. 

John let out a small hum of ascent to demonstrate that he was awake and at least partially listening, though he was still too comfortable to speak or open his eyes.

"I don't want you to feel like you can't talk to me about whatever it is that's bothering you."

John opened his eyes and propped his head up on one arm to look at Bald John. "Nothing's bothering me," he said. He tried – he really tried very hard – to mean it. It was no good. The look Bald John gave him said you're a terrible liar as clear as day.

"It's just that sometimes there are things that aren't worth saying," he admitted.

"I'm right here with you," Bald John replied. It took John a moment to understand his meaning. They were in this together, and the things bothering John were bothering Bald John just the same.

"I know," John replied softly. "I'm sorry. Next time I promise I'll involve you in my self-pity."

A small smile quirked at the corners of Bald Johns lips. "Thank you."

* * *

"Tell me a secret," John said.

Hours had passed, the sky had darkened, and the Johns had been drifting in and out of sleep for the better part of the evening.

"A secret?" Bald John shifted a little in bed so they could face each other. "What kind of secret?"

"The kind no one knows, obviously," John replied, smiling. "Something tells me you have a lot of them."

Bald John chuckled. "I'm not nearly as mysterious as you make me out to be."

John shrugged, but continued to look expectant. Bald John was silent for a few moments in apparent thought.

"I don't like  _Ghostbusters_ ," he said at last.

John laughed and pushed himself up on his arms. "Okay, A: you're crazy.  _Ghostbusters_  is a modern classic. And B: not what I meant."

Bald John slumped back on his pillow. He extracted his arm from around John, and knitted his fingers together on top of his chest. He closed his eyes and appeared to retreat a little into himself.

"My brother, Matt, is my hero. I've never told him, of course, but he is the kind of man I wish I could be. One of my biggest regrets is that I haven't been around for him in the last few years. I want to know him as an adult, and to witness the kind of man he's going to become. I think he'll achieve incredible things, and I desperately want to see it."

Bald John finished speaking and opened his eyes. The wistfulness in his tone was gone when he continued, "I suppose it's not too late though. I'm really excited for you to meet him – you'll probably get on far too well for my liking."

John laughed. "Seems like a bit of a remote possibility, doesn't it? How likely am I to ever meet your West Virginia-dwelling brother?"

A smile spread slowly across Bald John's face. "I'm sorry," he said, "I forgot to mention it in all the drama surrounding my coming out. Matty's moving to London. He told me last week."

His words hit John like a ton of bricks.

"He – what? Really?"

"Yeah," Bald John continued, "West Virginia University has this exchange programme, and apparently Matt won a scholarship to study for a whole year at University College London. He's arriving at some point this summer, and he'll be there for the whole year!"

Bald John's excitement was positively infectious. John felt a swell of vicarious pleasure and leaned over to kiss Bald John's cheek.

"That's really great. I'm so pleased you'll get to spend more time together."

"Me too," Bald John said, still grinning.

They lapsed back into silence for a few moments.

"What about you?" Bald John asked into the darkness.

"What about me, what?"

"Well, I shared a secret. Now it's your turn." 

John honestly didn't think he had that many secrets from Bald John. He was cursed with a strong desire to share stories, fears, and dreams. John didn't have any skeletons in his closet, least of all skeletons he would try to hide from Bald John. But the more he considered it, the more one thing kept rising to the surface. It was something he didn't like to talk about much among his footballing family. In point of fact, it was something he didn't like to talk about much at all.

"I really love the piano," John said at last. He curled into Bald John's side, gathering comfort from the physical contact.

Bald John let out a short huff. "I think you missed the point of the game, Bennett. I already knew you loved the piano."

"No," John continued, "I mean, I really love it. I miss it a lot. Sometimes, I think about what my life would have been if I had chosen to pursue music instead of football."

"Do you regret your choice?" Bald John asked.

John hesitated. "Yes and no. I mean, don't get me wrong. I absolutely love football. I love Swindon, and the Swoodilypoopers, and you. I'm happy with my choices. But there are times…" John really didn't like talking about this and suddenly wished that he had chosen a more superficial secret. "There are times when think I would be happier as a musician. For one thing, no one cares if you're a gay pianist. Half the classical musicians in the country are gay. It's more than that, though. Have I ever explained to you why I love football so much?"

Bald John shook his head. "I don't think so."

"There are a lot of reasons, but I love the challenge. The rules are the same every time, right there in black and white. The game is so simple, but a match never is. Every single match is different because every single time you're striving to play just a little bit better. Run faster, aim sharper, see the passes you wouldn't have noticed a month ago, take the shots you wouldn't have made a year ago. I love that strive for perfection. It's exactly the same thing in music. The difference is that music is transcendent, and football is brutish." 

"Brutish?" Bald John asked. He sounded a little hurt.

"I don't mean that," John amended quickly. "I just think sometimes that I chose football for the wrong reasons. I was fifteen when I gave up the piano, because I thought it was more socially acceptable for me to play a sport. I thought being a footballer would make me rich and famous, and I thought being rich and famous would make me happy. As it is, I am neither rich nor famous, and I'm happier for it. I just sometimes wonder what my life would be like if I had taken a different path. Most likely I'd be an accompanist to a Cher cover artist on a cruise ship."

Bald John laughed. "That I'd like to see."

John shrugged. "It's dumb. It's just a thought I have sometimes."

"It's not dumb," Bald John countered firmly. "John, if you want to play the piano again, there's no reason why you can't. Though personally, I think you made the right choice."

"Yeah, well you would say that."

Bald John chuckled. "Alright, I'll admit I'm a little biased, and certainly the Swoodilypoopers need you. It's not just that, though. You're a really great footballer. Better, I think, than you realize. In a few years you'll have the English national team knocking on your door."

John laughed outright at that. "Don't know what universe you're living in there, Green, but thanks for the vote of confidence anyway."

Manager John had officially decided to remain in Swindon until the end of the season, which meant that their practices had been kicked into a whole new level of difficulty. It seemed to John that he enjoyed nothing more than pushing his team to their absolute limit, and then asking for just a little more. It was exhausting, but no one could deny the results.

Three days later, their match against Bradford was proving to be their redemption. The Johns had each scored twice, and they were sitting pretty at 4 – 1 by the 60th minute. It was a relief to be back into the swing of things following their now-infamous match against Lincoln. Things still weren't perfect among the team – Cteve and Ginger had barely said two words to each other, and practices were running them all into the ground – but John still felt much better than he had three days ago.

The sharp blast of the referee's whistle at the 67th minute mark cut through John's thoughts. He paused in his run up the field to look around. There was no foul, rather Manager John was signalling to him that he was being subbed off. Cteve was standing at the ready next to Manager John, waiting for John to tag him in. With a small sigh, he jogged over to them. A moment later Cteve was running to replace him on the pitch, and Patrick was handing John a bottle of water.

"Great effort, OJ," Manager John said, slapping him on the back in approval.

"Thanks, Coach," John replied, trying to regain his breath. "I feel great. I could have stayed out there. Quite fancied getting my hat trick, sir."

Manager John smiled at him, but shook his head a little. "Hat tricks are just points of pride. The match is already sewn up, you and Bald John saw to that by the end of the first half. Take a seat, rest a little, the last thing we need is for you to go and get yourself injured, understand?"

"Yes, Coach. Thanks, Coach." John said automatically. He walked over to the bench and took the seat next to Voluptuous that Cteve had just vacated.

"Good match," Voluptuous said in his languid French accent.

"Thanks," John replied. He gave Voluptuous a small smile and looked out to the action on the pitch. Leeroy had dispossessed one of the Bradford centre-forwards and was slowly working the ball through the mid-field. He passed to Cteve, who passed it to Beef Stock, who passed it back to Leeroy. They continued in that way for some time, holding the ball mid-field, neither pushing forward nor pulling back. It was a brazen game of keep-away until they could run down the clock. John understood it as a tactic, but it didn't make for riveting football.

"I'm sorry you didn't get to play today," John said, giving up on the match in its final few minutes and turning his attention back to Voluptuous.

"It's okay." he shrugged. "It's the end of the season, so it is especially important to play the A-line-up. I understand."

"How's Alice?" John asked abruptly. He was mildly keen on changing the topic. He had always felt a little self-conscious about having been put on the starting line-up immediately after joining the team. He felt that older members of the team might have resented him, or thought he had taken someone else's position in the line-up. He was sure that Voluptuous didn't see it that way, but it still made him uncomfortable.

"She's very well," Voluptuous said with a beaming smile. He always adopted that expression when he spoke about Alice. "Marcel has decided he wants a skateboard. Alice thought it sounded too dangerous, but I told her 'better a skateboard than a motorbike, and better a skateboard than a football.' So now she is thinking it might not be so bad. We agreed he does all the chores for a month, and then we talk again about the skateboard."

John smiled. "Sounds like you have quite a system worked out."

"We have a marriage," Voluptuous said simply. John wasn't sure he understood what that meant, but he nodded along anyway.

"What's it like?" John was suddenly gripped with a desire to know.

"Marriage?" Voluptuous asked. John nodded.

Voluptuous didn't answer for what felt like minutes. "I don't think it is like one thing," he said at last. "It is as though every moment of your life does not belong to you alone, it belongs to you and your wife. It is wonderful, but it is not easy. It takes commitment, and respect, and patience. Sometimes you will fight and you will be angry, but you will always know that you can come home and be loved. There is no secret to being married," Voluptuous said, "it is just a promise to share your life, every step of it, with another person. I think it is important to find someone who will challenge you when you need to be challenged, care for you when you need care, and disagree with you as often as possible."

The whistle blew to signal the end of the match before John had any chance to respond to Voluptuous' words. The men on the pitch halted play and began to walk back towards the rest of the team that was waiting for them on the sidelines. John looked towards them and immediately noticed Bald John's eyes on him. He was grinning from ear to ear in the wake of their win.

He had never looked more beautiful.

* * *

John woke up to a single, rather promising text message from Hannah: where has this man been all my life?

The date with Leeroy had apparently been a success. He grinned to himself as he read her message. A chat at the Stone Pipe Café would definitely be in order. John looked up when he heard Bald John emerging from the bathroom.

"I think Hannah's a little smitten," John called over to him.

"With Leeroy?" Bald John asked, incredulous.

"He may not be your type, but I can see the appeal," John said, a slight tease in his voice.

Bald John cocked an eyebrow at this. "Oh really?"

"Sure." John couldn't resist the chance to wind up Bald John. "He's fit, he's funny, he plays football, and he's got that lovely American accent. Completely my type. You know, I'm a sucker for a good accent."

Bald John laughed and moved across the room to capture John around the waist with one arm. "I can live with that." He grinned and tackled John back onto the bed.

The locker room was bustling with the usual pre-practice activity when the Johns arrived later that morning. Dripping slightly from the rain outside, they walked up to their lockers and quickly started getting kitted up for practice. John was halfway through pulling on one of his boots when he felt a tentative hand on his should. He started a little, and turned around to find Leeroy standing behind him, looking tentative.

"Sorry," Lee muttered, "didn't mean to startle you."

"Don't worry about it," John assured him. "I've always been a little jumpy."

Lee gave him a weak smile, but still seemed uncomfortable. In point of fact, John didn't think he had ever seen Leeroy looking so unsure of himself. He was fiddling absently with the hem of his jersey and looking anywhere except at John.

"You alright?" John asked.

"What?" Lee had been staring off into the air a few feet above John's head, but his eyes snapped back into focus and locked onto John. "Oh, yeah, I'm fine."

"Okay…" John said, still highly bemused. He waited for a moment in the awkward ensuing silence, expecting Lee to speak again. When he didn't, John resumed putting on his football cleat.

"I –" Lee started speaking again a moment later, but abruptly cut himself off. John looked up from lacing up his shoe and gave Lee an encouraging smile. He was reminded suddenly of a deer, and was convinced that any sudden movement might startle Lee right out of what he wanted to say.

Manager John chose that moment to stride briskly into the locker room. John couldn't suppress a chuckle when he took in Manager John's appearance. Wrapped in a ludicrously large sweater, raincoat, and scarf, he wouldn't have looked out of place on a barge in the mid-Atlantic. John had thought their coach might have become accustomed to the amount of rain in England by now. Apparently not. 

"Come on, boys! I'm not here for my health. The sooner we start practice the sooner we can dry off," Manager John called out to them all.

John looked over at Leeroy. "Come on, Lee. We've got practice. What's up?"

"I really like Hannah," Lee blurt out in such a rush that it took John a moment to process what he had said.

"Oh," John replied mildly. "That's good. I mean, I'm glad. She really likes you too."

Lee blinked. "You… umm… you're not mad?"

John laughed. The idea seemed so ridiculous to him, that for a moment he couldn't even understand why Lee would have assumed that he was. When he remembered that he and Hannah were supposed to be ex-lovers, the whole thing became hilarious. John tried to school his features and give Lee the honest encouragement he was clearly in need of.

"No. I'm not in the least bit mad," John replied sincerely. "In fact, I think it's bloody brilliant."

He grinned at his friend and looped an arm around his shoulder as they walked out towards the pitch together.

Lee still seemed a little unconvinced. "Really?" he asked. "Because I would understand, you know, if you didn't want me to ask her out again."

John stiffened a little at this. "I get that you're trying to be a good friend, Lee, and I appreciate that. But listen: Hannah likes you. She wants to go out with you again. Even if I did have a problem with it, which I don't, it's not up to me to dictate your relationship in any way. Frankly, if Hannah knew we were having this conversation she would punch us both. Hard. So stop thinking about me and call her after practice, yeah?"

At long last Leeroy relaxed. His usual high spirits returned, and he flashed John one of his warm smiles. "Cheers, OJ. And don't worry, I'll be good to her, else I know I'll have you to answer to."

"Worse," John laughed, "you'll have Hannah to answer to." 

The following two weeks passed in a frenzy of practices and matches. Any time when the Johns weren't on the pitch, Manager John was ringing them up or popping by the house to discuss strategy. He combed through the statistics for every opposing player in every one of their remaining matches. He made the team gather in his slightly shabby hotel room to watch DVD footage from previous matches. He pointed out where they needed to get the ball wider, where they needed to pass more, where they needed to find the strength to push through. He yelled himself hoarse in practice and from the sideline during matches. All in all, he worked them to the brink of insanity. He also motivated them. He drove them to compete and to win. He gave them the spark to re-ignite their passion for the game. 

But if Manager John was the spark, it was undoubtedly Bald John who fanned the flame. John had never seen anyone more committed to anything in his life. Bald John stayed late after every match, he attended every press conference, and he made sure morale among the players was high. He even sat down with Peter to give him sound bites for a Gazette feature about the final matches of the season. He inspired the entire team – including John – to remember the kind of footballers they wanted to be. It was an uphill battle, but the cracks in the team began to mend. They weren't perfect, but they were a family, "and families are loyal to one another, above all," Bald John had said once in a speech he gave the team.

They had won all their matches in those two weeks. It was exactly the momentum they needed heading into the penultimate match against Mansfield Town.

"This is it, Swoodilypoopers," Manager John said with the grandiose tone he saved for the truly special pep talks.

John and the rest of the team were gathered in their customary pre-match semi-circle, waiting to hear what words Manager John would choose to give them the burst of enthusiasm they needed to get through their second-to-last match of the season. John could feel Bald John next to him, humming with pre-match nerves.

"This is it," Manager John repeated. "We win this match, and we're moving up. We lose, and it's another year in the bottom league. Draw, and our fate will be decided in our final match on Thursday. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'd really like to get this thing sewn up today. Now. Does that sound like a plan to you?"

"Yes, Coach!" came the booming reply from the men gathered in front of him.

"We can do this, boys. I'm incredibly proud of you all, and the strides we have made to come this far. But remember, this is just the first hurdle in our inexorable march to the Premier League. I believe you can do it. Patrick, here, does too. So do those fans, out in the County Ground stands. Now get outside, play some Swoodilypooper football, and prove all of us right." 

The moment the starting whistle blew, John knew, he could feel, that they were going to win.

John caught the ball deftly with his feet off a pass from Fitz on the first touch, and together, he and Bald John began to push forward against the Mansfield defence. They weaved their way through their opponents, created some great chances, but were stymied in one way or another for the better part of twenty minutes. Undaunted, they continued probing at the Mansfield defence, determined to find their moment.

In the 17th minute, Bald John made a sharp run up the left side with the ball. Recognizing the play and Bald John's intention, John barrelled himself through the defence to get in position for a cross. He had it, he was standing just a foot away from the goal, and he could feel the cross coming. Then it was there: the ball soaring in a high arc towards him. John jumped, and just as his forehead was about to make contact, a heavy weight pressed down on his shoulders, and a force at the back of his left leg caused his knee to buckle. Just like that the moment was gone and the ball was flying off to the far corner of the pitch.

John whipped around in frustration and found himself face to face with one of the Mansfield defenders. The man was half a foot taller than John, and certainly more built. He looked more like an ice hockey player – all brute strength and muscle – than a typically lithe British footballer. His long blonde hair was matted with sweat and tied back with an elastic band. John thought his name might be Smithers or Smith or something. He was certainly familiar – John had been trying to get past him all match. The defender leered at him before turning away. 'Smithe', John noted, was written across the back of the man's Mansfield Jersey.

It was only then that John realized he had been expecting to hear the referee's whistle. But it had not come. Since when is it legal to kick someone in the back of the legs? How could no one else have seen? There was some noise from the crowd, but still play carried on as normal.

John was aghast and frustrated to see that their referee had not deemed Smithe's actions worthy of a penalty kick, but even the lost opportunity couldn't dampen his spirits. John never once doubted that they would be able to find their way in. They had made several good tries at the goal, while the Mansfield strikers had barely made it past mid-field in their efforts to score. There was no doubting it – they had their opponent against the ropes, and it was only a matter of time before their resilient defence finally broke.

And indeed, his faith paid off another twenty minutes later. It wasn't a fancy or particularly inspired goal, but it was clean and on the money. The entire front line of the Swoodilypoopers had been systematically passing back and forth to one another across the top of the box. From Bald John, to Fitz, to Lee, to Lallana, to John, and back again. They gained ground inch by inch, working the pitch from side to side in a patient attempt to find the weakness in the Mansfield defence. It was Bald John who finally found the opening they had all been looking for. He lined up his shot and wasted no time in punching the ball hard past the legs of the Mansfield defenders and directly into the goal. The ball was in the back of the net before the keeper even realized the shot had been taken.

The tumult of the crowd was unlike anything John had experienced – clearly their fans understood the significance of the match as much as they did. The noise enveloped him as he and the team all careened towards Bald John in celebration. By the time John reached him, Fitz and Lee already had their arms around him and were literally dancing with joy, much to the entertainment of the home crowd. John laughed and joined them enthusiastically. By the time the referee blew his whistle to resume play, half of the supporters in the stands, the rest of the team on the bench, and even Manager John were dancing with them.

The remaining few minutes of the first half passed in a blur of adrenaline. This adrenaline stayed with them in the locker rooms, and filled the air with a buzzing energy. No one wanted to rest; no one even wanted to sit down. Patrick walked among them forcing bottles of water in their hands. John downed his in moments and spent the rest of the short break pacing from one end of the room to the other like a caged tiger. He was so full of manic energy that the last place he wanted to be was in a cramped, crowded room. He wanted to get back outside. He wanted to play. Failing that, John walked out of the main locker room and down the short hall to the showers. The shower room was a little bigger and completely devoid of people. It alleviated his claustrophobia at least.

"Hey." John felt the lightest of caresses along his arm and turned around to face Bald John.

John gave him a look of mock reproach. "Don't we have rules about this kind of thing?" he asked.

Bald John smiled and looked pointedly around the empty room, though he dropped his hand all the same. "It's been a great match so far," he said, leaning against one of the shower stall doors.

"It really has," John agreed, "one of our best, I think."

Bald John nodded, though said nothing else. John recognized, like an old friend, Bald John's look of wanting to say more but stopping himself. He didn't press it. Instead, he decided to share something of his own that he wanted to say.

"It's because of you, you know," John said, leaning against the opposite shower door.

Bald John looked up at him, clearly perplexed. "What is?"

"The reason we're playing so well. The reason we're going to win today. It's down to you. You inspire all of us."

Bald John laughed, though John didn't understand the joke. "What?" he asked, a little off-put that Bald John found his sentiments amusing.

"Nothing," Bald John replied, still smiling. "It's just that I was going to say the exact same thing to you."

That took John by surprise. Bald John was the leader, everyone knew it. He gave the speeches and made time for all the players. He was the supportive, strategic, dedicated, loyal one. John was just average. He was an average footballer, an average teammate, and an average presence in the team as a whole. He turned up more or less on time and he did his job, but he certainly wasn't responsible for turning the team around.

Bald John seemed to recognize the look of doubt in John's eyes. "I mean it," he insisted. "It's hard, I think, for you to see the effect you've had on this team. You didn't see the way we were before you arrived."

"How were you?" John couldn't resist asking. 

"We were awful," Bald John said. "…I was awful. I didn't know anyone, my marriage was falling apart, and we were playing terribly. We lost almost every match. John, I hated it. I was miserable all the time. The only saving grace was Manager John, who promised me that he was in the process of acquiring a striker to help turn the team around."

"I had no idea," John said softly. "About you, I mean. I had no idea you were so unhappy." Something from their very first conversation stirred in his memory. "Why didn't you leave?" John asked. "Why didn't you take an offer from one of the other teams that wanted you?"

Bald John gave a wry smile. "I guess it's just not in my nature. I made a commitment to Manager John. I joined the Swoodilypoopers because he promised me that we would be a different kind of team. 'Extraordinary' was the word he used. So I put my faith in him, and I suppose, by extension, in you. I was putting my faith in you before we ever met."

"It didn't seem that way when I arrived," John replied, stunned by what he had heard. He wanted to reach out and comfort Bald John, but he was still painfully aware of their only semi-private location. "You all seemed so happy when I started. Like this family that I wasn't yet a part of."

Bald John shrugged. "Some of the others might have been, but I wasn't. In fact, I think you made more friends in that first evening than I made in my first three months in Swindon."

"John…" John didn't know what to say. Bald John had always seemed so sure of himself. So comfortable. So in control. John's heart broke a little to hear how much it had once been otherwise. "I don't know what to say," he said at last, his heart brimming with empathy. "I'm so sorry."

Bald John shook his head dismissively, and smiled. "It's fine. That's my whole point, John. You made me better. You reminded me of the kind of man I wanted to be. You brought life back to our team. You inspired me. You continue to inspire me every day."

John blushed at the praise. He appreciated the sentiment, of course, but compliments hadn't sat well on his shoulders in years. Ever since his ambitions in Liverpool had died, John had put a lot of energy into convincing himself that he was nothing special, so he wouldn't be disappointed when nothing special happened to him. Bald John, though, had been an unattainable goal who had fallen directly into his lap. John could get used to feeling special – even if only in the eyes of one man.

"The feeling's mutual," he replied softly. 

He had more he wanted to say. If he'd had the time, he would have told Bald John just how much he had also been affected by joining the team and by having Bald John in his life. He would have told him that before they met, he'd been floating through life like a shadow, going through the motions of a life but never allowing himself to really want anything. It was Bald John who had reminded him of his passions and had dared him to act on them.

As it was, the bell signalling the beginning of the second half rang, and they were heading back onto the pitch before he had a chance to say any of it.

Maybe it was for the best, John would think later, words don't really have the same weight as actions.

If their goal in the first half had been a team-wide effort, their goal in the second belonged solely to the Johns.

It was actually something of a fluke. Mansfield had picked up speed in the second half and managed to gain a corner kick in the 49th minute. The Johns flanked the edge of the box for the kick, as was customary for a pair of strikers during a defensive play. It wasn't their job to keep the ball out of Fat Lucas' goal; it was their job to be ready when someone else did.

A Mansfield midfielder stepped up to the ball in the right corner and took his shot. The kick was too high, and his aim was off. The ball arched over the heads of the players scrambling at the centre of the box and landed at the feet of one of the Mansfield defenders. Smithe took a moment too long to prepare his pass. John was upon him in a moment and tackled the ball cleanly out of his control. John ran forward a few paces and he passed to his co-striker. Bald John grinned at him and surged forward. He out-stepped the remaining defender and was left one on one against the Mansfield keeper. The keeper ran boldly up to meet his challenger, his arms splayed in preparation to stop Bald John's shot. Without looking up, Bald John passed it directly back to John's waiting feet on the other side of the goal, leaving John with an open net. John wasted no time. He took a breath, made sure he had the shot, and kicked it easily into the net.

That was it. With that goal, they brought themselves to a two-point lead against Mansfield. There were still twenty minutes left, but John had never felt so sure. They had this. They were going to League One. 

He felt high with exultation as Bald John's arms wrapped around his lower back, and he sank into the embrace with familiar ease. The rest of the team had barely caught up to the ball's location by the time they had already scored. John felt as though they were in their own small world, he and Bald John. Stronger together than either of them had ever been apart.

"Marry me," the words were whispered so faintly against Bald John's neck that for a moment John was not sure whether or not he had said them out loud at all. He felt rather than saw Bald John react. His whole body went tense and he pulled back with a slight jerk.

"What?" The replying whisper was, if possible, even softer than John's proposal had been. 

They dropped their arms from around each other – their hug had already been longer than was generally considered socially acceptable – and both took a step back to gauge each other's reaction. The searching look in Bald John's eyes was not unexpected. Bald John was nothing if not meticulous, and he was evidently trying to divine the extent to which John was serious. For his own part, John too considered what he had just suggested. He found himself to be utterly overflowing with conviction. John wanted nothing more in the world than to marry the man standing before him.

He tried to gauge the emotions in Bald John's expression, but his own adrenaline levels were so high he could barely think straight himself, let alone carefully study the expression of his highly guarded partner. So instead, they just stood there, staring at each other. The moment felt at once eternal and all too brief. Within a few seconds the referee was blowing his whistle. A second after that and Lallana was running past them to resume starting positions. Two more seconds after that and John could hear a few of the players calling out to them. 

"Johns!" Fitz Hall was right next to them, but John hadn't noticed him approach. "Hey, are you guys okay? We need to get back or the ref's going to foul us for delaying play. Let's go!"

Still John didn't move. Something had slowly been shifting in Bald John's expression, and John would be damned if he was going to miss what was about to happen. Sure enough, Bald John's features finally broke. A smile lit up his face, and he let out a brief, breathy laugh. His eyes a little glassier than usual, he continued to stare at John, utterly transfixed. It was all John could do to stare right back. He would happily allow himself to get a yellow card if it meant he got to stay in that moment with Bald John for one second longer.

"Seriously," Fitz was saying, "what the hell is wrong with you two? Did you get hit in the head or something?"

"Yes." Bald John's eyes didn't leave John's as he spoke. John felt dizzy. He thought he might just pass out in the middle of the pitch with the amount of happiness he was feeling. He wanted to laugh and to cry and to – at the very least – kiss his fiancé. He did none of these. Instead, with a gargantuan effort, he tore his eyes away from Bald John's blistering smile and looked at a very perplexed Fitz Hall.

"No," he amended to Fitz. "Sorry, we're coming now."

The Johns followed Fitz back towards centre field. Bald John walked up right next to him, leaned in, and whispered: "Don't we have rules about this kind of thing?"

John generally prided himself on his ability to compartmentalize his personal and professional lives. All of this fell apart in the wake of his proposal. Though John was beginning to think that he had underestimated the power of letting his emotions into a match. The seventeen minutes immediately following his proposal was some of the best football he'd ever played. He scored once more in a well-aimed free kick and felt such sustained surges of adrenaline that he was certain he could score again by the end of the match.

His opportunity came in the 83rd minute. The Mansfield side was frustrated and beginning to make poor plays. On this occasion, Lee intercepted a weak pass and punted the ball forward to John. John managed to evade one of the Mansfield defenders and suddenly had a free run to the Mansfield net. He took off at a sprint. Many of the players were still further back, and John was sure – he was sure – that he could make the shot before any of the Mansfield players caught up.

What John did not account for was the amount of frustration that had set in among the Mansfield players. A loss for them meant relegation, meaning they would drop right out of the Football League. This frustration had been running particularly deep in Smithe, who had already been bested by John on a number of occasions that match. He ran at John from behind and tackled him hard on the left side. He didn't seem concerned with whether he connected with the ball or with John's legs. All John was aware of was that one moment he was preparing to take the shot, and the next, he felt a blinding pain somewhere in the region of his left ankle. John barely had time to process this new stimulus when he was hit with the force of a freight train. More accurately, with the force of a 200-pound footballer sliding into his legs at full pelt. John's legs fell out from under him, and he was propelled into the air.

There was the space of a single moment, a heartbeat, where John had time to feel terror as he crashed back to the earth head-first. Then everything went dark.

* * *

John emerged blearily back to consciousness and attempted to take stock of the world around him. He was dizzy, the ground was lurching underneath him, his head was killing him, and there was an excruciating pain in his left foot. He could smell dirt and the chemicals they use to treat the grass of the pitch. It made his stomach roll unpleasantly. He was also aware of a great deal of noise. Gingerly, John opened his eyes and saw the stands of the County Ground above him. Every supporter in the stadium was on their feet. John couldn't figure out why until it slowly dawned on him that they were applauding. Applauding him. Before John knew what was happening, there was a pair of medics surrounding him and lifting him carefully onto a stretcher. A brace was placed around his neck, and John was already being carried off the pitch before he finally saw Bald John.

He had been right by John's side the whole time, of course. He looked pale and shaken. The sight was distressing to John. He wanted to say something – to reassure Bald John that he was fine. But his throat didn't seem to be working. Worse, John rather suspected that he wasn't fine at all. So all he could do was smile in weak reassurance as the paramedics carried him off the pitch. John tried to sit up, but his head swam violently, so he lay back down. A moment later the tunnel engulfed him and blocked the pitch from view.

The dark silence of the empty locker room was a relief compared to the tumult of the stadium. The paramedics carried John into the small first aid room at the back of the locker room and set him down on the examination bed. They poked and prodded at John's neck, asked him to turn his head one way and then the other, and finally removed his neck brace. Sometime during this preliminary examination John's eyes had slipped closed. He suddenly felt so warm. And so very, very tired. He felt his mind slipping away from him when a firm hand on his shoulder pulled him back.

"I need you to stay awake for me, Mr. Bennett."

John blinked and looked up into the calm and collected face of a young woman. He recognized her. She had been the on-site paramedic for every one of the Swindon Town matches in the past season. Her vivid, wonderfully curly red hair was tied back in a neat ponytail. He watched as she and the older male paramedic standing beside her exchanged a few words. The man looked over at John, nodded once, and then headed back out the door. John listened to the man's footsteps slowly fade as he headed back outside.

The red-haired paramedic turned her attention back to John, who stared at her intently. He was sure he knew her name, but it just wasn't coming to him.

"Mr. Bennett, do you think you can sit up for me, please?" she asked with a professional politeness.

"There's no need for the 'mister'," he murmured. He didn't like the slurring sound of his own voice. He tried to ignore it and sit up regardless. His head lurched uncomfortably when he pushed himself up onto his elbows, but he managed to get upright without falling back down. He ignored the brief wave of nausea that accompanied the movement.

"Okay," the red-headed medic said calmly, "that's good, John."

She walked over to one of the cabinets, pulled out a medical bag, and carried it back to the examination bed. She sat down in a stool across from John, and pulled out a small light. She flashed the light briefly into each of John's eyes in turn. The movement made his vision go blurry, and he had to blink a few times to regain his focus.

"Okay…" she repeated, though she sounded less sure than she had a moment ago. "Can you tell me what day of the week it is today?"

Day of the week... Day of the week… John was sure that he knew the answer to that. Try as he might, however, the word kept slipping from his grasp like trying to remember the details of a dream – the harder he tried to think about it, the more difficult it became. Why does this even matter? Isn't there something more important going on? Didn’t he have somewhere he needed to be?

"The match!" John exclaimed, remembering. "I need to… I need to get back to the match. What's the score? What's the time?"

"You don't need to worry about the match," the medic replied calmly. "I need you to focus, Mr. Bennett. Can you tell me the day of the week?"

"I… umm…" John was beginning to panic now.

"That's okay," the woman said quickly, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry about that just now."

The medic – her hair is so red, John noticed absently, like fire, or a ripe pumpkin. The thought made him giggle. Hair the colour of a pumpkin. The idea seemed hilarious, though he wasn't sure why. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was dimly aware that there was something wrong, but he couldn't stop laughing. The medic moved her hand from his shoulder to grip his arm.

"John, I need you to relax," she said firmly. The pressure on John's arm and the sound of his own name helped to focus him. He calmed down and took a breath.

"Sorry," he said, "I, uh, I'm not sure what came over me."

"It's fine," she replied kindly. "I would like to just do one or two more tests before we –" She was cut off by an eruption of noise in the locker room next door. The whole team was suddenly rushing back inside. The match had evidently ended.

John could hear a number of familiar voices. All of them combined created a considerable din.

"How is he?"

"Is he here?"

"Are they taking him to hospital?"

"Is it serious?"

"Is he injured?"

"How long will he be out?"

"Thank God this happened at the end of the season!" 

The sudden onslaught of voices caused John's headache to peak, and he rubbed at his right temple in a vain attempt to lessen the pain.

Meanwhile, the medic had risen from her stool and closed the door. No sooner had she done so then the door burst open again, revealing half the team, all of whom flooded into the small room. If John hadn't felt so terrible he would have been touched that they were all so concerned about him. As it was, all he wanted was to see Bald John and make the pain in his head and ankle go away. One of these desires, at least, was granted to him almost immediately. Bald John was lingering by the door. He watched John like some kind of silent vigil, but said nothing and made no move further into the room.

"Right!" the young medic shouted, her voice booming out over the noise of John's teammates. John flinched against the added strain to his headache. "If your name is not John, get out of this room! Now!"

John was beginning to like her. She pushed them out like a dog herding a flock of sheep, until eventually they were left alone with Manager and Bald John. When Bald John also tried to edge out of the room, the medic looked at him.

"Mr. Green, you name is John, isn't it?"

Bald John looked back at her, a blush of red creeping across the edges of his ears. "I… yes."

"And don't you want to stay and hear about Mr. Bennett's condition?" she continued.

"Yes, of course," Bald John replied.

"Great!" the woman said brightly. "Then close the door and we can talk."

Bald John closed the door while the medic returned to her stool.

"Is he alright, Liz?" Manager John asked quietly.  _Liz!_  John thought triumphantly,  _her name is Liz! I knew that._

Liz hesitated for a moment. "He has a pretty severe concussion, and judging from the simple examination I gave him, his ankle is at least sprained, if not fractured. I'd like to get him to A&E for observation of his concussion and treatment for his ankle."

John didn't remember her examining his ankle. He looked down at his foot and noticed that it had already been wrapped in some simple bandaging. When had that happened? On the field? Come to that, John thought that the match had ended sooner than he expected. How long had it been? The idea that he might be forgetting chunks of time was alarming. He felt panic rising in his chest. Suddenly, a familiar hand was gripping his, and his fear melted clean away. He looked up at Bald John.

"How are you feeling?" Bald John asked.

John considered the question. How was he feeling? His head was a little wobbly and his ankle was screaming, but he was also deliriously happy. He could feel that he was extraordinarily happy before he even remembered why. Then it came to him:  _I'm engaged_. It was so unlikely, so sudden, and so utterly lovely. He grinned, punch-drunk, at his fiancé.

"I feel really, really fantastic," John said sincerely.

Even so, John could feel a nagging worry at the back of his mind that he couldn't put into words. He ignored it, hoping it would go away.

Liz wasted little time in getting John into the ambulance. When she tried to force him into a wheelchair, he protested that it wasn't necessary. But he swayed dangerously when he stood, and could put no weight whatsoever on his left leg. So, one slightly bruised ego later, he was ultimately forced to let them wheel him into the back of the ambulance.

Liz insisted in no uncertain terms that Bald John should ride with them, so he too climbed into the back of the ambulance and took a seat. John could hear a commotion from his teammates, many of whom sounded as though they wanted to follow them to the hospital. He silently hoped that Manager John would talk them out of it. Much as he loved his team, he could barely focus long enough to speak in full sentences, let alone hold court with a gang of eccentric footballers.

Much of his first few hours at the hospital were a blur. He remembered being wheeled into the A&E and having his picture taken by a few particularly bold Swindon Town supporters. Eventually he ended up in an examination room. Once there, a doctor poked a little at his head and neck, did many of the same tests that Liz had done, and sent him to a different examination room. In that room a different doctor poked at his ankle, occasionally causing him to cry out in pain.

Throughout it all, Bald John was the only constant. He followed John to every room, spoke to every doctor, and even rubbed John's back patiently when the nausea from the concussion caused him to throw up on one of the nurses’ shoes. At one point he worried that Bald John was being a little too friendly, but he hoped that it could pass as the behaviour of a close friend. Besides, John was far too exhausted and pained to be overly concerned about it.

Eventually, John found himself in a hospital bed. A soft-spoken nurse strapped what looked like a large metal watch to his wrist. It was an alarm, she explained, that would wake him periodically during the night. Something about making sure his concussion didn't cause him to slip into a coma. John thought he should probably have been frightened about that possibility, but as it was he was so tired that it was all he could manage to stay awake throughout her explanation. When she finally left, John slipped easily into sleep, lulled by the feeling of Bald John's hand in his.

The vibrating alarm on John's wrist brought him uncomfortably back to consciousness. He blinked a couple of times in the evening light of the hospital room. He still felt a little disoriented and woozy, but the pain in his head and ankle were almost non-existent.  _They must have me on the really good drugs_ , John thought with some satisfaction. He was glad of this if for no other reason than because he did not yet wish to confront the severity of the injury to his ankle. It would of course have to be faced sooner or later, but John wasn't ready yet to consider how long it would take to heal, what the healing process would involve, and – most importantly – how it would impact his future with the Swoodilypoopers. _Our journey to the Premier League has only just begun and mine might already be over._  John clamped down hard on that idea. That was exactly the line of thinking he was trying to avoid.

He distracted himself by listening to the voices drifting from under his hospital room door. The large, empty rooms made their voices reverberate clearly into the room, and it took John only a second to recognize Bald John's warm pitch and cadence. The other voice took him a little longer to identify, but he eventually thought it must be the paramedic from earlier –  _Liz,_  he remembered triumphantly.

"…by the morning," John caught the tail end of Liz's sentence. "Though he'll need some monitoring for the first couple of days. If his symptoms recur be sure to get him back here as soon as possible."

"Thanks, I will," came Bald John's reply.

"John, you know I'm happy to answer your questions, but I'm sure the doctor has already told you all of this."

"He did," Bald John affirmed. John could imagine with perfect clarity the scene outside. He could feel that Bald John had something more he wanted to say, based on his tone of voice alone.

"Was there something else, then?" Liz asked. John was quietly a little impressed; Bald John was not an easy man to read, but she seemed to be managing it just fine.

"There was, actually," Bald John replied. His voice dropped in volume, and John had to strain to hear his next words. "I was just wondering… why did you ask me to stay in the first aid room? And why did you make sure that I was the one who rode with John to the hospital?"

There was a silence in the hall. John was leaning halfway out of bed to make sure he didn't miss any of Liz's response.

"Why?" she asked finally. "Did you not want to go with him?"

"No," Bald John replied quickly, his voice rising in volume, "I did. I'm just wondering how you knew that I wanted to."

"Well, I should have thought it was obvious. Any fool could see that your concern for him is… significant."

"What's that supposed to mean?" John recognized the defensive edge in Bald John's tone.

"John," Liz replied matter-of-factly, apparently not remotely put off by his tone, "it's a part of my job to notice details. The details can save someone's life. I was on the pitch immediately after his injury, and I noticed you. You were upset. Not just concerned like your teammates, but visibly affected. Someone who cares that much is clearly someone who John would want looking after him."

"Oh," Bald John replied softly, all aggression gone. "Okay, I suppose that makes sense."

There was a pause. When Liz spoke again, her voice sounded lighter, almost like she was teasing Bald John. "Well, there's all of that, plus it says in his file that you're his emergency medical contact. So, that was the main reason, really."

Bald John let out a short laugh. "Thanks, Liz. And thanks again for coming to check on him. I'll let him know you stopped by."

"No need," Liz replied, her voice full of self-deprecating humour. "I don't think he even remembers my name. I just wanted to make sure he was alright."

There were a few more words exchanged that John couldn't make out. The next thing he could hear was the fading sound of Liz's feet tapping across the floor. It sounded as though she had nearly left before Bald John called out to her again.

"Liz…" His voice had been loud enough to call Liz back, but immediately dropped in volume once she returned. When Bald John spoke again, he sounded so desperate and worried that John could barely recognize his voice. "He will get better, won't he? He will play again, I mean."

Liz sighed. "I'm not a doctor, John. But there's no reason to believe he won't be fine. His concussion should have faded by the morning, and his ankle should heal in a couple of months. Weaker players than him have completely recovered from far more severe injuries. You're footballers. A certain amount of injury goes with the territory. It hasn't stopped Torres, and it won't stop Other John."

Bald John chuckled. "John would want me to point out that he's no Fernando Torres, but thanks anyway."

"You never know," Liz said, a cheerfulness coming back into her tone, "I've heard rumours that there are teams as high as the Championship interested in recruiting you two. I'd say that John's is a career to watch. He might be able to give Torres a run for his money in a couple years."

"On that," Bald John replied, "I couldn't agree more." 

* * *

 

The second time John's alarm woke him, it was to find Bald John sitting asleep on one of the chairs next to his bed. Bald John's head was resting at a sharp angle against one of his hands and his back was twisted awkwardly. John's heart expanded with love at the sight. At the same time, John's uncomfortable feeling of worry that he could not voice tugged again at his mind when he looked over at Bald John's sleeping form.

Bald John, one of the lightest sleepers that John had ever encountered, roused himself when John sat up a little in bed.

"Hey," he said with a hastily stifled yawn, "how did you sleep?"

"Not bad. Though I would sleep a whole lot better if this alarm would stop going off all night."

"It's only going every four hours," Bald John corrected gently, "and if it's a choice between that and you slipping into a coma, then I think you might just have to suffer through one night of interrupted sleep. Besides, one night is nothing. I have to put up with you and your snoring every night!"

John let out an indignant yelp. "I do not snore!"

"You know full well that you do," Bald John replied with a patient smile, running a tender hand across John's arm.

Of course John was aware that he snored, if for no other reason than because Bald John had been giving him a hard time about it for months. Still, he tried to deny it as often as possible – there was just something deeply undignified about snoring.

"Hannah was here earlier," Bald John continued. "She sends her love. I think she wanted to stay until you woke up, but – would you believe – she has a deadline. The coverage of yesterday's match will probably make the front page by tomorrow. You know, with you being a local hero and all."

John snorted. He was hardly that. "It was nice of her to come, anyway,"

"Her, and Liz the paramedic, and most of the Swoodilypoopers," Bald John said, smiling. "There were over a dozen people filling up the waiting room for two hours until the nurses finally chased them all off. They made up some rule about you not being allowed visitors, because they couldn't figure out how to deal with so many people."

John laughed, but the movement made his head hurt a little. "You should go home," he said. "It's not like I'm dying or anything. You don't need to stay here all night."

"I know," Bald John replied, though he sat back in his chair, clearly showing no signs of leaving, "but someone needs to watch over you for the first night, on account of your traumatic head injury. And really, it was me or Manager John, so who would you prefer?"

John laughed. "Alright, I'm obviously glad you're here. Still, you must be exhausted."

Bald John shrugged. "Not really."

John wasn't remotely fooled. Bald John's shoulders were hunched, his voice was low, and he was blinking slower than normal. The man was clearly exhausted, but he was also incorrigible; he had decided to spend the night watching over John, which meant that he would do exactly that. John knew better than to argue, so he sat back and within a minute his eyes were drifting closed again. 

* * *

 

The next time John's alarm woke him, there was weak light filtering through the blinds of the window. He looked around. The chair Bald John had been sitting in was empty, but there was someone sitting in the corner of the room he had not been expecting.

"Ashley!" John exclaimed.

Ashley was sitting cross-legged in one of the visitors' chairs on the far side of his hospital room. Her glasses were resting on top of her head while she leafed through a medical pamphlet on concussions. She looked up when he called out and grinned at him.

"Hey, little brother," she said, uncrossing her legs and dragging her chair closer to his bed. "How're you feeling?"

John paused and took stock of how he was feeling. His head had stopped hurting, and his vision was back to normal. He thought his concussion might finally have been wearing off.

"Not bad," he said eventually. "My head feels like it's more or less back to normal, anyway."

"That's good," Ashley said. "I wouldn't operate any heavy machinery just yet, but you should be fine. In fact, I think the doctors will want to kick you out of here as soon as possible; they're wasting a good bed on you." 

"Thanks, Ash," John said. "It's nice to see you too."

Ashley's smile faltered a little. "It is nice to see you," she said earnestly, "though I'm sorry the circumstances are a bit…" she trailed off, gesturing at his hospital bed.

"I guess it's just one of the perks of the job, eh?" John said.

"You should have become an accountant like Mum and Dad wanted. Accountants hardly ever get concussions and sprained ankles at work."

"These are the regrets I must live with every day," John joked, smiling at his sister.

They fell into a comfortable silence. After a moment, Ashley reached across him to the breakfast tray one of the nurses must have brought in at some point while he was asleep. Without even asking, Ashley picked up his cup of orange juice and began drinking it. John didn't bother complaining; this was just Ashley. She would travel across the country to steal his orange juice.

"Where's John?" he asked.

Ashley put down the juice to speak. "He left about an hour ago. I don't think he wanted to, but I reminded him that you weren't dying and there was no need to deprive himself of sleep in order to hold a vigil by your bedside."

John laughed. "That's exactly what I said! He didn't listen to me when I said it."

"Well, I guess he saw it as a changing of the guard. He left you in my capable hands." Ashley finished off his juice in a large gulp. "Besides, he said he had some errands he wanted to run before picking you up."

"Picking me up?" John perked up at this. "Does that mean I get to go home?"

Ashley gave him an apologetic look. "I doubt it," she said. "At least, you'll probably get to go home at some point today, but certainly not until the doctors have dealt with that ankle of yours."

"What do you mean?" John asked, a little perplexed. "Didn't they treat it last night?" John was sure that he had a memory of someone wrapping up his ankle.

Ashley, however, shook her head. "No, sweetie. Bald John said that apparently they took a look at it, but with you in the mental state you were, they just wrapped it up. I think they want to take a proper look at it this morning. So I expect they'll want to give you an X-Ray to determine the severity of the injury and what the best course of treatment will be."

The panic that John had been fighting since the moment he first got injured resurfaced with a vengeance. "How serious do you think it is? Will I need surgery? How long will I be out?"

Ashley reached out and gripped John's hand with her own. "I don't know, John. I'm not an orthopaedic surgeon. If I were to guess, though, based on the nature of your injury, you probably have a syndesmotic ankle sprain. It's a tear of the syndesmotic ligaments that connect the tibia and fibula on the lower leg."

"Ash." John said. This was much more information than he wanted, and it certainly wasn't alleviating his worry.

"Sorry," she amended quickly, "that's not important. The point is that there are two types of syndesmotic fractures: stable and unstable. Unstable fractures do often need surgery, but without an X-ray, there's no way of knowing which type you have."

John swallowed hard, trying to remain calm. He squeezed Ashley's hand a little harder. "What's the recovery time like?" He needed to know everything, all at once: like ripping off a plaster.

"It varies…" Ashley hedged. John could feel her hesitation. "John, there's no point getting into it when we don't even know which type of injury you have yet…."

"Go on," he insisted, "give me the worst case."

"On average? Six months," she replied at last.

John felt like he had swallowed ice. Six months. The entire off-season, all of the summer training, and well into the first two months of the upcoming season. Six months. John lay back onto his pillows, trying to process this information.

"Some fractures can heal in a matter of weeks, though!" Ashley insisted, trying to soften the blow. But there was no conviction in her tone. It was plain that she was just trying to comfort him.

"Thanks," he said, smiling a little at her. 

Again they lapsed back into silence for a moment. John looked up at the door to his hospital room. "Hey," he said, indicating it, "could you do me a favour and close the door for me?"

Ashley immediately bounced up and shut the door before returning to her seat next to him.

"I have something I need to tell you," John said, nerves causing his hands to shake a little.

"What's up?" she asked, her interested clearly piqued.

The reality of the situation seemed suddenly so ludicrous that John couldn't say it. For half a minute he just sat there, trying to make the words fit in his mouth. "I asked Bald John to marry me," he said at last.

Ashley gaped at him, her mouth lolling open. 

"You… You asked… seriously?" she exclaimed at last, trying and failing to keep her voice at an acceptable volume.

"Yes," John replied quietly. "Yes, I seriously did."

"You… wow." Ashley appeared to have lost the ability to speak in full sentences.

"It was during the goal celebration in the second half of the match," John continued. He figured he might as well get everything out while Ashley had gone temporarily mute. "While we were hugging. I just… I don't know what happened, really. I just said it. Ash, he said yes."

Ashley's eyebrows shot up beneath her fringe. "You… you're engaged?"

"Yes. I guess we are." John found that the more he talked about it, the more real the situation became. He really had proposed and Bald John really had accepted. They really were engaged. No wonder John was dizzy.

"That's incredible, John!" Ashley finally seemed to have regained her senses, and leaned down to hug him enthusiastically. "I'm so, so happy for you."

"Thanks," John replied, but he hesitated. The worry he'd been fighting off began to grow again. "Only… what if I've lost my mind?"

"So what if you have?" she countered. "Don't you want to marry him?"

"Yes," John replied empathically. Of that much he was absolutely sure, "but what if he doesn't want to marry me?" The deep-seeded fear was out of his mouth before he had thought to censor himself.

"Why wouldn't he?" Ashley said. "Didn't he say yes?"

"Yes…" John admitted. At last, John found a way to put his concerns into words. "The thing is… Bald John doesn't do impulsive things. It's just not in his nature. He's rational and calculating. This is a guy who considers the pros and cons of different sandwich options before he selects his lunch."

Ashley let out a small chuckle despite John's clear anxiety. "Sandwich options are not exactly the same as marriage," she pointed out.

"Even so, it was selfish of me to propose in such a high-emotion environment. What if he replied out of… I don't know, some kind of instinct… but is now having second thoughts?" John could feel his stomach tying itself into knots of worry. Even so, he pushed on, determined to voice all of his worry. "Plus, family is everything to Bald John. It means more to him than anything else, and I haven't even spoken to his parents before! Clearly we've lost our minds, right? What if he's sitting around desperately trying to figure out how to let me down gently? Should I just tell him to forget it and pretend it didn't happen?"

John felt tears prick at the corner of his eyes. He blinked them away quickly. It was hard to believe that all of this had transpired in the past 24 hours. How had everything gotten so complicated so quickly?

Ashley sat for a moment in silence, absorbing everything he had said. "Okay," she said at last. "I think, first and foremost, that you need to talk to Bald John. You need to be honest, share the things that worry you, and let him know where you stand. Just communicate, yeah? It's something you two are usually pretty great at, isn't it?"

John nodded. Talking was definitely something they could do.

"I also think you shouldn't fret about whether or not he's looking for an exit strategy. You didn't see him last night but… wow, does that boy ever love you. So relax, would you please? And speak to your fiancé."

John smiled at his sister. He didn't think he could ever say 'thank you' enough for all she had given him.

Of course Ashley had been right. His X-rays later that morning confirmed that he did have a syndesmotic – or high ankle – fracture. He was wheeled about all morning, first in and out of testing, and finally to the orthopaedic surgeon to be fitted with a brace. He'd been lucky, apparently, that the fracture was stable. Even so, his doctors got shifty when the question of recovery time was raised. 

"It depends…" they all said, evidently determined not to give him a straight answer. When pressed, they were forced to admit what Ashley had already told him – that recovery could easily take as long as six months.

It was with a heavy heart that John was finally wheeled back to his hospital room. Six months of lying around the house. Of rehab. Of re-learning how to run and kick a ball. Of sitting on the bench. Of watching all the other Swoodilypoopers train for League One.

Bald John returned by the mid-afternoon. He stepped quietly into the room to find John and Ashley sitting up together playing gin rummy. Ashley had discovered the beat-up set of playing cards in the hospital's bedside cabinet. Bald John walked over, gave Ashley a smile and John a kiss on his forehead.

"You ready to go home?" he asked.

John really, really was.

* * *

Ashley drove them all back to the Johns' home, and within minutes she was pulling up alongside the pavement in front of their house. Only through leaning half his weight on Bald John's shoulder did John manage to make his way out of the car and up the tiny steps of their front walk. His head continued to swim if he moved it too quickly, so he stepped gingerly into the house.

Once Bald John had helped John across the threshold, he continued down the hall, volunteering to make them a pot of tea. John smiled at his retreating back. He began to follow him towards the kitchen, hobbling on his crutches like a newborn foal. He paused, however, when he noticed that Ashley had not moved from her position at the front door. She was fidgeting with her keys, clearly reticent to follow them down the hallway to the living room. No sooner had they managed to get inside, than Ashley was preparing to turn back around and leave again.

"You're leaving already?" John asked, though he already knew the answer.

He tried to mask his disappointment, but he knew it was a waste of effort. Sure enough, Ashley's eyes softened in response to his expression. More fool him, John supposed, for thinking he could hide his emotions from her.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but it's a long drive back to Liverpool, and I've really got to be back in the lab tomorrow. I wasn't even allowed to take today off, actually." Ashley continued to fidget with her keys before looking up at her brother and faking a smile. "You know, that cancer isn't going to cure itself!" Despite her weak attempt at levity, she was visibly upset that she had to rush off so soon.

John knew that if he pressed her just a little, he could easily convince her to stay for at least one more night. The idea was tempting, but he pushed it away. She had already driven over 100 miles to see him last night and would have to drive another 100 miles tonight. She had done it without blinking just to see him for a few hours, and she would stay if he asked her to. She loved him that much. But he loved her too, so he could let her get back to her life.

"Sure," he nodded, "not that you've got a God complex or anything."

John's teasing seemed to put Ashley back on firmer footing, and she grinned. "I'm sorry, what was that? I can't hear you over all the lives I'm busy saving."

"Oh yes," John replied, not missing a beat, "I bet all your lab mice are falling over themselves in gratitude."

Ashley laughed, and John felt lighter than he had all day. Heart-felt sarcasm: it was where the two of them thrived best. After the emotional roller-coaster of the past day, it was a relief to just be Jonathan, Ashley's obnoxious little brother. At least for a little while.

"Touché," Ashley replied. "Listen though, I could at least stay for a cup of tea if you wanted…"

"No," John insisted. "Get gone, sister. You've abandoned the real world for long enough."

John reached out and pulled Ashley into a firm hug. His balance faltered and he wobbled a little, but Ashley held on, keeping him upright.

"Alright," she conceded, pulling away from him a little, "but you call me if you need anything, yeah? Or if you have any…" she lowered her voice and checked down the hall quickly, "life stuff… you might want to talk about."

John smiled down at her and nodded. "I promise. And thank you, so much, for coming. It really means a lot."

Ashley shrugged off his gratitude. "Well, your little brother gets taken down by a nutter who forgot to take his rage medication; you make the three-hour drive to see him. It's one of the rules of siblinghood. I'm pretty sure."

John smiled. "I'll bear that in mind if the lab mice ever stage a coup."

"You'd better," Ashley deadpanned. "If I get mauled by Pinkie and the Brain, I expect yours to be the first face I see when I awake in hospital, horribly disfigured."

John laughed again. "Deal."

They said little else after that. Ashley bid a quick farewell to Bald John, hugged John again, and then was gone.

Half an hour after Ashley left, John was curled up on the couch in their living room, his left leg extended onto the coffee table in front of him and his right tucked under his body. Bald John had sat him down on the couch and insisted that he not move for fear of aggravating either his ankle or the concussion. The bright evening light of the early summer streamed through the bay window. Were it not for the worries plaguing his mind, John would have been wonderfully content. As it was, he could not concentrate on anything for more than a minute. John flipped aimlessly through a magazine he'd stolen from his hospital room, but quickly abandoned it. He tried to watch TV, but gave up before the screen had even warmed up. He picked up a book of Bald John's on the coffee table. Wealth, the Fall of Rome, and the Making of Christianity in the West, 350-550 AD. John couldn't even get past the title and quickly put it back down.

His nerves were getting to him, and John felt he might burst if he didn't speak to Bald John soon. He was granted this opportunity a minute later, when Bald John entered the living room carrying two cups of tea in matching striped mugs. He handed one to John and kept the other, sitting down on the couch beside him.

John cupped his hands around the mug Bald John handed him and let the heat warm his palms. Having determined to speak to Bald John, he was suddenly having remarkable trouble thinking of what to say. He took a sip of tea in silence, more for something to do than out of any desire to drink. Eventually, he lifted his eyes from the coffee table in front of him, and looked at Bald John, who had been watching him patiently all the while. 

"Ash said you were running errands today," John said, thinking he might build his way up to what he wanted to say. "Anything exciting?"

Bald John smiled wryly. "Not particularly. I was meeting with a few of the Swoodilypoopers. They've all been worried about you, of course, so I figured I'd sit them down and let them know how you're doing. I just thought I'd spare you the trouble of having to field all of their questions. I know how too much attention can… distress you."

John sighed. He was actually more relieved that he wanted to admit. "Thanks," he said. A small smile tugged at his lips. "You're always looking after me."

"That's what I'm here for," Bald John replied easily.

John smiled a little wider and reached out a hand to Bald John, who took it as a signal and moved across the couch, wrapping him tenderly under one arm. For a moment they were quiet and comfortable. Then with a bit of an effort, John forced himself to delay the inevitable no longer. He shifted himself a little awkwardly on the couch so that he could face Bald John.

"We need to talk about this," he said, looking up at Bald John to gauge his expression.

He didn't elaborate, but his meaning was clear. Bald John sat up a little straighter and withdrew his arm from around Bald John. More than the loss of his physical presence, it was the resigned look on Bald John's face that made John's stomach twist into knots.

Oh God, what if Ashley was wrong? What if he really is having second thoughts? John was surprised by the amount of anxiety this very real possibility gave him. They had only been engaged for a day, and even then, not officially. Even so, the idea of going back to the way they had been filled John with a keen sense of remorse. It was remorse for the loss of their possible future together. Until that moment, John hadn't even realized how much it meant to him.

"It's alright if you're having second thoughts," Bald John said, his eyes trained on the leather of the couch.

John was so shocked by this that he could only stare at Bald John for a moment, certain that he'd misheard.

"I – what? No. I mean... I'm not having second thoughts," John continued slowly, sure they must have misunderstood each other. "I thought you were having second thoughts."

Bald John looked up at this. "I'm not having second thoughts! I thought maybe… I mean, your proposal…. It was so quiet. Like a thought you didn't know you were saying out loud. I just assumed… well, you would have been quite within your rights to take it back…"

John had never heard Bald John speak in such halting, nervous sentences. For someone who was always so sure of what he wanted to say and the words he wanted to use, Bald John's sudden uncertainty was endearing.

"I don't want to take it back," John replied firmly. "I would really very much like to marry you. How does that sound?"

John looked over at Bald John. As he absorbed John's words, his eyes lit up. He grinned, at once shy and utterly charming.

"That sounds excellent," Bald John said. His voice was thick with emotion and his eyes sparkled.

Bald John moved back across the couch and John eagerly met him in a kiss. He noticed that Bald John was much gentler than he would ever have been before John's injury. For the moment, John thought it was a little sweet, but that would need to be rectified soon. It's only my ankle, after all.

John pulled away much sooner than he would have liked. He was reluctant to abandon the kissing, but was aware that they had only partially dealt with the concerns that were weighing on John's mind. This is a very good, wonderful start. Part one taken care of. We want to get married. Now there's all the other stuff.

Bald John seemed to recognize the nervous look in John's eyes. "Everything okay?" he asked. The note of worry was unmistakable. John was loath to give Bald John any reason to doubt his resolve, so he forced a small smile.

"Yes… But… that is to say… not really…" John stammered.

He took a breath and tried to compose himself. It was something Bald John appeared to do with such ease, but John had a lot of trouble organizing all of his thoughts into sentences before he began speaking. In the end, he spoke slowly, giving himself time to weigh each word before he said them. The result was that his sentences were punctuated and halting, but at least his meaning was clear. "I am not having second thoughts," John reiterated, "but I am having… thoughts."

Bald John quirked an eyebrow in confusion, but said nothing. He would wait patiently until John had said everything he wanted to before responding. John drew some confidence from this and continued.

"I love you. So much. Sometimes it scares me a little, how much I love you. I'm not… I'm just not used to relying on other people. It doesn't come naturally to me. Even Ashley, who has been this amazing, constant presence in my life. Even with her, I have trouble keeping in touch as much as I should. I have trouble allowing myself to need her. I'm the same with all my friends, my parents… I keep everyone at arm's length. I feel like that's safer, somehow."

John drew a breath. He thought he might have wandered off the point a little, but it felt good to explain. He wanted Bald John to really understand what was concerning him.

"With you, though…" John pushed on, "I think I could spend every second of the rest of my life in your company and it wouldn't be enough. I could wake up with you and go to sleep with you and spend every intervening moment with you. I want to know you so well that I can predict what story you'll tell at a dinner party, or which song you'll sing in the shower. It's one of my goals, and it will last the whole rest of my life, to get to know everything about you."

Bald John smiled and took John's hand into his, but still didn't respond. John was thankful to him for this, because he feared that if he didn't keep speaking now, he would lose his resolve.

"I'm also afraid," John admitted. "When all's said and done, we haven't been together that long, and I don't want you to feel like you've trapped yourself in some big game of chicken – like I've dared you to marry me or something. I know you well enough to know that you don't do anything without carefully considering it, and this is anything but carefully considered. I mean, what about your family! Family means everything to you, and I haven't even met your parents!"

John could feel himself getting worked up, but he couldn't stop. Suddenly, the fears he'd been holding on to for months began to slip out, unbidden.

"To your parents' minds, you already have a family. What does that make me to them? The foreign freak who turned their son gay? And what about you? I mean, you've been married before, and that didn't exactly turn out how you'd hoped. So what if one day in the not-too-distant-future you wake up with the same misgivings about our relationship that you did with Lindsay? Or you decide that your life really would be a hell of a lot easier if you went back to dating women? I don't want that for you, and I don't think I could… I think that would break me."

John chanced a glance back up at Bald John and saw in his eyes a look of such distress and mounting anger that John sensed he should wrap up. "So I guess I just want you to understand that I'm not playing some game of who-can-pretend-they-want-to-get-married-the-longest. I'm in. I'm so in that I'm terrified."

John cleared his throat a little awkwardly. He didn't generally like talking about his emotions, let alone his greatest fears. He looked down at his own hands, afraid to even face the man beside him. It was only when Bald John finally spoke, that John's eyes were drawn back up to him.

"Right. Okay. So it's my turn?" Bald John's voice was clipped with barely contained emotion.

John nodded mutely.

"Honestly, John, I can't tell whether I'm furious, heartbroken or deliriously happy. Listen, I know that I can be a little reserved. I don't always broadcast my feelings. But how can you think – especially after what I went through with Lindsay – that I would ever agree to marry you if I wasn't irrevocably, head-over-heels, rapturously in love with you? I know I don't say it very often, but I am. I am desperately, pathetically, childishly, in love with you. You have terrible taste in films; you don't like American football or politics. You watch bad documentaries and read too many crime novels. You never do the washing up and you don't know how to cook. But I don't care, because you are all the best parts of me too. You are bold, honest, and unrelentingly driven. You are one of the most talented people I have ever met, and you're humble about it to a fault. I love you so much that when I'm not around you I feel like I'm missing a limb. It's terrible, John! I've become one of those people in co-dependent relationships, who I always looked down on in college."

John let out a breathy laugh. The praise was making him blush with pleasure and embarrassment.

"I don't have any way to prove to you how spectacular I feel when I'm around you, or how sure I am that you're the person I want to marry," Bald John continued, "but that's the point of having faith in other people. I know it doesn't come easy for you, but we will never make this work if you can't trust that I'm not going to ever fancy anyone, female or otherwise, more than you."

John nodded. A tight lump had formed in his throat while Bald John had been speaking. "That's fair," he said, "I'm sorry, my mouth kind of ran away with me."

"It's fine," Bald John gave him a small smile. "You're allowed to have doubts, John, everyone does. But I don't ever want you to doubt my attachment to you. It's ironclad."

John smiled back and leaned over to press a small kiss to Bald John's lips. "What about you, though?" John asked. "What are you doubts?"

Bald John looked at him evenly. "I have doubts about what's going to happen to us down the line. We can't stay in the closet forever without becoming bitter and angry. And my biggest fear is we'll take that frustration out on each other. If that ever happens, then no matter what I think we'll need to come out. I don't think we can survive forever on secrets and lies."

Bald John's words cut deep to a fear that John had been trying to ignore. He was right, of course. "Yes," John agreed. "We'll look out for each other, and promise that if it ever becomes too much for us, we come out and face the consequences. We're in this together, John. We're a partnership, and we can face all the challenges in the world if we remember that."

Bald John looked reassured. "Okay," he said. "I promise."

They lapsed into silence for a moment, each of them processing what the other had said. Suddenly, Bald John sat up, remembering something.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "As for my family, I've been wanting to introduce you to them for weeks! You keep leaving the room every time they call!"

John shrugged a little sheepishly at this. It was true. Bald John spoke with his family at least once or twice a week, and every time John felt like he was intruding on something private, so he would go out of his way to not be around. Bald John had always been very protective of his family, and John had instinctively assumed that he didn't have access to that part of Bald John's life. Sensing this, Bald John sat up a little straighter, an idea clearly occurring to him. 

"Right," he said, his voice all business. "You want to meet my parents? Fantastic, let's do it."

Without another word he disappeared around the back of the couch. John listened to him walking down the hall and up the stairs. He returned a moment later with his computer tucked under one arm.

"It's a perfect time," Bald John continued as he set the computer down on the coffee table. "My parents are sure to be up. They'll want to see you, of course, hence the computer."

Before John had time to process what was happening, the computer was booted up, and the Skype call had been dialed.

It rang twice through the tinny laptop speakers before Bald John's parents answered. At the last moment, John had the presence of mind to move to the far end of the couch, out of sight of the webcam. A second later, the faces of Richard and Sheila Green came up on the screen of Bald John's computer.

They both had kind, weathered faces. Bald John certainly had his father's hair – or lack thereof – but in everything else he was the spitting image of his mother. Sheila and her son shared the same grey eyes, bright smiles, and slightly reserved looks. Her hair was dark blonde with a speckling of grey, and she wore glasses in plastic green frames. 

"Johnny!" Richard called to his son, who waved dutifully at the camera in front of them.

"Hi Mom," Bald John replied. "Hi Dad."

"How are you?" Sheila asked, "Didn't you have that important game yesterday? How was it?"

"It was pretty good," Bald John replied, "we won at least."

"That doesn't sound like an 'at least', son!" Sheila said. "That sounds great!"

Bald John nodded, a smile stretching across his face. "Yeah," he said, "it's pretty exciting."

"So does this mean that you're… oh, what was that word you used?" Sheila said.

"Promoted," Bald John supplied. "Yes, it means we're going up to League One in the fall."

"That's so great!" Sheila exclaimed. "Will we get to watch you on TV soon?"

Bald John chuckled. "Not just yet, Mom. Maybe in a year, if we make it to the Champions League." 

In the past, John had occasionally come home to find Bald John on the phone or on Skype with his parents. He used to beat a hasty retreat when this happened, however, so John had never really had a chance to observed Bald John when he was talked to his parents. He enjoyed watching him now, though. Bald John seemed completely at ease and smiled continuously. He was so charming that John would have been perfectly happy to sit and watch him throughout his conversation with Richard and Sheila.

He exchanged a few more words of greeting with his parents. He asked about home, and they talked briefly about some local news that meant nothing to John. John watched them from out of sight all the while. He noticed that both Sheila and Richard had a tendency to shout into the microphone even when they could be heard perfectly well at a normal volume. John found it oddly endearing.

After a few minutes of small talk, John heard Bald John's tone shift. "There's a reason I called you, actually. I want you to meet someone."

Sheila perked up, and her voice was brimming with anticipation when she spoke again. "Sure, honey, who is it?" John felt sure she knew where this was going, which only served to make him more nervous.

No going back now. Bald John motioned for him to move into the camera's field of few. Obediently, John slid across the couch to face the computer. His uninjured leg shook violently against the floor. Bald John put a comforting hand on his knee, out of sight of the camera.

"Mom, Dad. This is John Bennett."

John waved awkwardly at the computer screen. "Hi," he said. His voice cracked from nerves and he cringed. 

"Hello, John," Sheila replied politely. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," John said. He didn't think it was worth mentioning that he'd gotten out of hospital only a couple hours ago.

"How's your ankle?" Richard asked, his voice gruff but not impolite.

John was stunned by the question. "It's umm… it's not bad. The doctor's say it should heal perfectly in time, which is a relief." There was a pause before John remembered to add, "Thank you for asking."

Richard nodded. "I'm glad to hear it. I read about your injury in the Swindon Gazette website. Sounds as though the town's pretty upset."

"Well, we love our football, here. Soccer," John amended. Immediately, he regretted it. He was sure they knew what he meant. Now I sound patronizing. That Englishmen and his underestimation of the intelligence of Americans. Perfect. John reminded himself to relax and continue speaking. When did I lose the ability to have a conversation? "So long as I'm well enough to help us get promoted next season, they should forgive me for getting myself injured."

John was sure that everything he was saying sounded stupid. Even so, Sheila and Richard both laughed politely.

"Well, I'm very pleased we could finally meet you, and I hope you feel better soon," Sheila said. She sounded to John like the perfect embodiment of everything a mother should be, and John couldn't help but love her for it.

"Thank you," John said, sincerely grateful.

Bald John opened his mouth to speak again, but was cut off by noises on the other side of the line. Richard and Sheila both turned their back to the camera, and John could hear a fifth voice had joined their conversation.

"Is it him?" the voice asked excitedly.

John suddenly felt like he was on show. John looked over at Bald John, who was smiling at a joke that John didn't understand.

"I want to meet him!" the voice persisted.

"Who is that?" John whispered to Bald John.

"It's Nate," Bald John said, still smiling, "my youngest brother."

"The teenager?" John asked, remembering.

Bald John nodded.

A moment later Nate was there, sitting in between his parents and peering into the computer screen. John waved at the camera, feeling even more uncomfortable than he had a few minutes earlier.

"Hi," John said.

"You're John?" Nate asked. John could see the family resemblance, but Nate had the same blonde hair as his mother and only a small, wispy-looking bit of facial hair where his moustache should be.

John nodded. "That's me."

Nate laughed. "Weird," he said at last.

John didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing.

"Nate," Bald John cut in sternly, "you're freaking him out."

"Sorry," Nate amended. "I meant weird in a good way. Like, it's weird that you have the same name, and you're…. you know…." Nate indicated with his hands between the two of them.

"We're in a relationship, yes," Bald John said. He was clearly torn between exasperation and amusement at his little brother.

Again Nate let out a small laugh. "Also, seriously Johnny, I think this guy might be out of your league."

This time is was John's turn to laugh. "I'm starting to like him," John teased quietly to Bald John.

"Nate!" Sheila reprimanded, clearly much less amused at his comment. She stood up and shooed him out of the room forcefully.

"Bye!" Nate called as he left.

"Bye!" John called back. All in all, he'd quite enjoyed meeting Bald John's brother.

The rest of the conversation continued without any great dramatics. The four of them chatted a little about a variety of things. The Greens wanted to know more about John's interests and his background, and he told them about his family, his background, and his learn-by-reading style of education. Richard in particular appeared to approve of this. Their conversation had all the awkward pauses and small talk required in meet-the-parents interactions. John had never met a partner's parents before, but he thought this one might have been going well.

Eventually, the conversation began to wind down. Sheila and Richard were about to start making their goodbyes when Bald John stopped them.

"There's one more thing," he said. John took his hand and squeezed it reassuringly. We're really doing this. Sheila and Richard paused and looked at them both expectantly. "John and I… we've decided to get married."

The stunned silence that greeted them was not unexpected, but it did make John's pulse race uncomfortably. His head swam again, but he ignored it.

"Is that… legal, honey?" Sheila asked at last. "Is that even possible?"

"Yes," Bald John explained calmly. "It's not called marriage exactly, it's called a civil partnership, but it's legally the same thing." 

"But it's not really a marriage," Richard said. John tensed, but kept his composure. He knew that Richard wasn't trying to be insulting, but that didn't prevent John from feeling insulted.

"It is," Bald John said firmly. "We'll exchange rings, we'll have a ceremony if we want, we'll even decide if we want to share the same last name. It is, in everything but the religious sense, a marriage. Since neither of us are particularly religious anyway, that doesn't feel like a real barrier."

Sheila and Richard paused again. John watched them look at each other. It seemed to him that they were communicating a great deal to one another without speaking.

Bald John, meanwhile, had begun to look crestfallen. John rubbed his thumb along the back of his hand, offering him as much comfort as he thought was appropriate given the circumstances. As the silence stretched, he became increasingly frustrated. Eventually, it got to the point where he couldn't sit there any more and watch Bald John's parents disappoint him.

"Excuse me," John said. Richard and Sheila looked over as him when he spoke. "I don't mean to be rude, but it is customary when your son gets engaged to offer some kind of congratulations."

Something in both of their faces shifted, as though the reality of the situation was only now sinking in.

"Oh, Johnny, of course we're happy for you!" Sheila exclaimed. "Really, we are. It was just a bit of a shock."

Bald John looked up at them. "You mean it?" He looked like such a child in that moment that John's heart lifted.

"Yes, absolutely. I think it's wonderful. After everything you've told me about John, I shouldn't really be surprised. You're clearly perfect for each other."

This took John by surprise. He wasn't aware that Bald John had talked to his parents that much about their relationship.

"Thanks, Mom," Bald John replied. His attention turned to Richard, who had been sitting quietly. "Dad?"

Richard sat up and looked intently at his son. "You're sure?" he asked. "You two have only been together for a few months, and it's… Marriage is a lot of work in the best of circumstances, and you are going to face a lot of hurdles that a normal marriage wouldn't. You have to be sure."

"We are," Bald John said, looking across at John, who nodded. "We are better equipped to face the hurdles together than we would be on our own."

Richard nodded, though he didn't look entirely convinced. "Alright," he said as though he'd lost a battle. "In that case I'm very happy for you, son. I wish you both all the luck in the world."

Something about the way he said it made John feel uncomfortable. Richard clearly thought they would need all the luck in the world.

Maybe they would.

* * *

Time that summer passed at once agonizingly slowly and far too quickly. Each day was a physical struggle, and John felt like his recovery was taking an age. Yet each day also brought him inexorably closer to autumn. Closer to the beginning of the team's season in League One. Closer to the day that John would be forced to sit on the bench and watch his teammates compete for a spot in the Championship. And that time was approaching all too quickly. 

The weeks of initial recovery were bad enough. John had flatly refused a walking boot when Ashley warned him that having one could delay his rehab. So with his ankle wrapped only in a simple bandage, John initially tried to deny the need for crutches entirely. This resulted in him tumbling down the bottom half of the staircase only a day after his injury. He was unhurt, but Bald John was so angry that for the entire rest of the week he watched John's movements like a hawk. Every morning John would hobble down the stairs to the couch and barely get back up again until the end of the day. He iced, compressed, and rested. He did everything he was told, and hated every second of it.

After less than a week of this John felt he was on the verge of a mental breakdown. One morning, in an attempt to rescue his sanity, he snuck out to go for a walk. He ignored the pain when it shot sharply up his left leg every time he put weight on it. It was slow going, and he barely made it to the end of the street by the time Bald John caught up with him.

Bald John walked up alongside him, watching him warily. "This isn't helping anything," he said. He voice was sharp with agitation, but he let John continue to walk on his own, for which John was very grateful.

Neither of them said anything else. Bald John just walked silently alongside John, ready to catch him if he should fall. John was determined to prove that he could manage on his own, but it was a fool's errand. Only half a block later his left leg began to shake violently. Letting out a few sharp breaths, John took one more step before his leg gave out. Bald John took this as his cue and wrapped his arm protectively around John's lower back.

"Come on," he said softly in John's ear. "Save this for another day. Come home now."

Ultimately, he had no choice but to allow Bald John to guide him back inside and onto the couch. After that, John suffered quietly through another week before he could bear it no longer and insisted on beginning his physical therapy.

John's bid for rehab was successful, so he began still more weeks of painful and frustrating physiotherapy. It was a slow torture. All he wanted was to join his teammates in summer training while they prepared for the upcoming season. He wanted to take part in the tackle drills and to practice his footwork. He would even have been happy to run sprinting drills if it meant he could have been out on the pitch.

Instead, he was stuck in the training gym pushing tiny amounts of weight around with muscles that ignored his commands. There was no feeling more maddening in the world than having a body that refused to do as it was told. John had always possessed something of a short fuse, and that summer it was tested time and time again. Those months were full of small achievements – discarding the crutches, removing the wrapping, going for a gentle jog. But for every step of progress, John was reminded how far he still had to go before he would be ready to play again.

I'm losing my mind, Hannah. Please come jogging with me? Queen's Park, 10 mins? OJ xx

John sent the text but continued to clutch his mobile in his hand like a lifeline. His right leg bounced agitatedly as he waited for Hannah to respond. Like a junkie for a fix, John was positively desperate to go for a hard run. It had been three agonizing months since his injury. September had arrived, and the new season was just around the corner. The long summer had driven John utterly stir-crazy. His strength had been returning to him ever so slowly, and he was finally convinced that it was all back. The only problem was that he couldn't convince anyone else of this.

John glanced down at his phone and then back up at the bathroom door. The sounds of Bald John's shower could still be heard through the door. John estimated that he had no more than five minutes before Bald John would finish. Five minutes to get out of the house without being stopped. Come on, Han. I need you.

John had been set a strict prescription of physical exercise from his physiotherapist. Fifteen minutes of running twice a day. Of course, John had already burned through that in the morning. It wasn't enough. His ankle had felt fine through both fifteen-minute runs, and John was sure that he could handle more. In fact, he had much higher ambitions than a jog. The first match of the new season was in just three days. John felt sure that if he could prove to everyone that he was able to run at full strength, then they would have to let him play.

Finally, John's phone buzzed in his hand. Fine, Hannah's text read, but we're taking it slow. Got it?

That was more than enough for him. You're the boss, boss.

John was in his running gear and out the door in mere minutes. He could still hear the sounds of the shower when he closed the front door behind him.

Hannah was waiting for him at the entrance to the park when he arrived. The sun was hanging low in the sky. It rested just above the trees behind Hannah's head and bathed her in a halo of light. His very own guardian angel.

"Thank you," John said when he was close enough to speak. "Seriously, you're a lifesaver."

"Yes," Hannah said with a grim smile. "I'm also guilty of enabling your crippling addiction to physical activity. Bald John is going to kill me when he finds out about this."

"Bald John worries too much," John dismissed with a wave of his hand. He ignored the sinking feeling in his gut. "I'm fine. The pain is gone, I have full ankle rotation movement and almost all of my strength. I'm ready to go back to work." Hannah had an eyebrow raised in amused scepticism. "Do you want me to prove it to you?" John teased her with a grin.

She wasn't fooled. "Easy, tiger," she said gently. "Let's just go for a nice jog and make sure you don't kill yourself trying to prove something that no one has asked of you."

Her words stung. Everyone kept telling him to take it easy, to go slow, and to rest. But he was sick to death of resting. The Swoodilypoopers were playing on Wednesday, and John would be ready to join them. Without replying, he took off down the path into the heart of the park. Hannah was left momentarily in his wake before she followed him at a sprint.

"John!" she called, clearly agitated. "Slow down, you freak!"

John ignored her. It felt so good, so blissfully good, to run. He pushed hard against the gravel path with each stride, savouring the strain on his muscles as he did so. There was an ache of protest in his left leg, but John chalked that up to disuse and kept going. Eventually, Hannah caught up to him and tugged hard on his arm. He stumbled and was forced to slow down.

"Damnit, John! Don't make me regret agreeing to this."

"Sorry," John muttered. In truth he wasn't remotely sorry, and he knew Hannah could tell. For a wonderful moment he had felt his strength had returned to him. All he wanted to do was get that feeling back. Even so, he reluctantly matched Hannah's much more sedate pace.

They ran side by side in silence. This was something that John loved so much about running with Hannah – they could be together in a perfectly relaxed silence. It was comforting just to have her around, even when they weren't speaking.

It was a long while before either of them spoke again. The sun had sunk behind the trees, dying the sky a rich, dark blue. The park had nearly emptied. Families and dog walkers had been chased away by the gathering sunset. Unperturbed, Hannah and John continued their familiar circuit around and around the park. The gates would eventually be locked for the night, but they had at least an hour before then. Besides, they knew from experience that the fences were easy enough to climb. They had on several occasions – before John's injury – snuck into the park for late night jogs.

"So," Hannah said at last, her breath coming in puffs. "How're the wedding plans coming along?"

Hannah had pitched a fit with excitement when John first told her about their engagement. He sometimes got the sense that she was more interested in planning their wedding than either he or Bald John were.

John half-shrugged as they continued to run. "They're not. We've kind of… put the plans on hiatus."

Hannah looked downright devastated to hear it. "Why!?"

"It's nothing serious," he explained quickly, sorry that he'd given her the wrong impression. "John just doesn't want to get married until his brother moves to England. I think he likes the idea of having at least some of his family with him."

In truth, this was only a part of the reason. The other part John didn't quite feel able to articulate to Hannah. He wasn't sure she would understand. Or maybe he just didn't want to talk about it. The reality was, however, that they couldn't have a real wedding. Not really. There were only a handful of people who knew about their relationship in the first place, and half of them lived on the other side of the world. Though neither he nor Bald John had said it out loud, there was something sad in planning a wedding when the number of guests could be counted on one hand.

"Which brother is this, again?" Hannah asked, oblivious to his unspoken concerns. "The bigoted one or the nice one?"

"The nice one."

"Makes sense. That Bald John would want him there, I mean. When's he arriving?"

"I'm not sure." The pair of them reached the exit of the park, but swung past it and began a new circuit. "But he'll definitely arrive by the end of the month. I think his term at UCL starts the last week of September, so probably a couple of days before that."

"That's soon!" Hannah exclaimed. "Are you nervous?" 

"About what?" he asked, distracted.

John had only been partly engaged in their conversation. The rest of his mind was busy taking stock of how he was feeling. Breathing had become more difficult as they'd been speaking, and he was starting to feel a stitch forming in his side. His ankle still twinged, but he felt more physically fit than he had in months. Add that to the endorphins flowing through him, and the high was so addictive that John didn't ever want to stop.

"About meeting him!" Hannah clarified excitedly, drawing John back to their conversation.

In truth, John hadn't spent much time thinking about the actual process of meeting Matt Green. His focus had all been on Bald John getting to see his brother again, and his pleasure on their behalf. Now that he thought about it, all he could feel was excited about meeting a man who meant so much to Bald John. Anyone who could earn such levels of respect and love from Bald John would surely be worthy of his time.

"Not at all," John replied at last, smiling. "How're you and Lee?" he asked, changing the topic.

Hannah smiled at the mention of Lee. "We're good. Of course he's worried about the match this week, but he's going to be fine. Great, even. I'm looking forward to the day when Peter and I get to profile him for the Gazette. Though of course as a professional I can't let my… umm… personal biases… dictate which athletes we feature. Obviously."

"Obviously," John agreed with a smile. "That's it?" he prompted. "You haven't got any gossip for me?"

"Nothing worth reporting," Hannah replied. "According to Lee, Fat Lucas is still a bit… on edge… but it's getting better."

John hadn't been to many of the practices lately – he suspected that Manager John had made sure his physiotherapy conflicted with practice so John wouldn't have to watch the rest of the team train. Even so, he had heard about the goings on with Fat Lucas.

Manager John, it seemed, had finally put his foot down earlier that summer and insisted that Fat Lucas quit drinking if he wanted to continue as the keeper for the Swoodilypoopers. His drinking had been tolerated while they were in League Two, but things were getting serious now. In order to win, they needed a keeper who was operating at his peak performance.

Personally, John felt this move was long overdue. Most of the team agreed, and they were all doing their best to make it easier on Fat Lucas. John thought they would probably emerge as a team more tightly bonded than ever, but it had been a struggle. Fat Lucas had had a short temper and low stamina while he had been in withdrawal. Manager John was convinced that he would be well enough to start on Wednesday, though. Selfishly, John felt this news also boded well for his own chances of being able to start. If Fat Lucas could be in the starting line-up after being sober for only two months, then surely John could too.

He and Hannah lapsed back into silence, wrapped up in their own thoughts. John concentrated on breathing and on the feeling of his legs pushing against the loose gravel of the path. Sweat began to bead at his temples and down his back, quickly cooling in the evening air. The burn of his muscles and the crunch of the ground beneath his feet filled John with satisfaction. He pushed harder with each stride, testing the pain in his ankle. It wasn't bad; certainly nothing he couldn't play through. He was ready. He could play. He would just have to go to Manager John in the morning and –

"Hey, have you thought any more about your Best Woman?" Hannah's words cut through John's thoughts. He looked over and grinned at her, still feeling elated from his run. 

"I don't know… Maybe I'll have you and my sister fight it out."

"You shouldn't joke about these things," Hannah replied. "I'm sure I could take her on."

John laughed. "You haven't met her. I reckon she could give you a run for your –"

He cut himself off abruptly when a spasm of pain shot up his left leg. He must have put his weight on it wrong, because it was suddenly screaming in protest. It was a level of pain that John hadn't felt in weeks. He staggered, immediately took as much weight as possible off of his left leg, and limped his way to a tree against which he could lean.

"John?" Hannah put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

John nodded through the pain and the panic, not trusting his voice to be entirely firm. He took a couple sharp breaths of air. "I'm fine," he managed.

"You're lying," Hannah said flatly. John didn't contradict her. She sighed and the compassion fell back into her tone. "Alright, come on, Sports Star. I'm taking you home. Lean on me."

She stood on his left side and draped an arm under his shoulders. John braced himself against her, worried that his leg would give away underneath him if she weren't there to take some of his weight. Together they hobbled to the exit of the park and down the street towards John's home. After a few strides, the pain in John's ankle began to recede again. He gingerly tested it against the pavement and found it could still bear his weight.

"I'm alright," he said to Hannah, trying to shake her arm off him.

"John…" Hannah slowly loosened her grip, though she was clearly reluctant to let go completely.

"Really, I'm okay. Look." John walked a few paces ahead of her. His ankle felt weak, and he was definitely limping, but he could still walk. More than anything else, John was desperate to not arrive home without even being able to walk on his own. He could only begin to imagine Bald John's fury.

For John's part, the bitter disappointment was threatening to overwhelm him. I just have to make it home, he thought determinedly. I just have to hold it together until I get home.

It took them much longer than it should have to make the short walk back, but eventually they made it to the front door. John could see the light from the living room leaking out between the curtains of the bay window. He wasn't looking forward to facing his co-striker after this possible setback on the road to recovery. But that dread was completely overwhelmed by his desire to go home and find comfort in the arms of his fiancé.

John glanced over at Hannah and saw that she looked positively miserable. Her eyes were glassy, her hands were shaking slightly, and it looked as though she was on the verge of tears.

"Hey," he said, concerned, "what's wrong?"

Hannah let out a shuddering breath. "I'm so, so sorry. I should have insisted we stop! We'd been running for nearly forty minutes! I - I didn't even notice the time go by! I'm so stupid, and now you've probably been set back weeks! It's all my fault. I shouldn't even have agreed to come out with you in the first place."

"Han, don't be silly," John said tenderly. He wrapped her up in his arms and squeezed her shoulders reassuringly. "It's not your fault, and I certainly don't blame you. It's my own damn impatience, but I'll be fine. Honestly, thank you for coming with me, it was exactly what I needed." 

They both knew that wasn't true, but she nodded anyway. They bid each other a quiet goodnight before Hannah walked back down the road and out of sight. John sighed and headed up the walk to his house, trying to ignore the twinge in his ankle with every step.

Bald John's voice was emanating softly from the back of the house when John walked inside. He followed the sounds of his fiancé's voice, but hesitated at the closed door to the kitchen.

"I just don't know what I'm supposed to do," Bald John's voice could be heard clearly through the thin door. There was a silence followed by these words, and John could only guess that Bald John was on the phone with someone.

"Yes," Bald John said, evidently agreeing with whatever the person on the other end of the phone had said.

A pause. "Do I remember what?" A moment later Bald John began to laugh. "Yeah, I remember. It's not exactly the same though, Matty." There was another pause, longer this time. "John doesn't even like dogs."

Something about the absurdity of that comment was enough to shake John into action. Unable to justify eavesdropping any longer, John pushed through the door, interrupting their conversation. Bald John looked up at him from the kitchen table, his mobile phone to his ear.

"Sorry, Matty. I have to go. Can we talk later?" Bald John looked down at the table in front of him. "Thanks, I will. Bye."

Bald John put down his phone and turned his attention to John. "You went running." It wasn't a question or an accusation. He was merely stating a fact.

"Yes," John affirmed anyway.

Bald John sighed in a resigned way that made John feel a cold stab of guilt for his utterly childish behaviour. How could he have possibly thought that sneaking out was a good idea? How could he have been so stupid? But John had always lacked foresight. He was never very good at anticipating the consequences to his actions. In that way he and Bald John were polar opposites. 

It was just one more thing on the long list of reasons why Bald John was too good for him.

Shame coloured John's cheeks. "I don't know what I was thinking. I'm just so… I just really, really wanted to play. It was stupid." John felt tears prick at the corner of his eyes. Before he knew what was happening, he was outright sobbing, right in the middle of the kitchen.

John felt he had no right to be standing there crying when he had no one to blame but himself. But he was just so desperately exhausted. Never before had he felt so utterly useless. He had been clinging to the idea that he would be able to play. If he could have healed before their first match then it would have been as though the injury never happened. He could have joined them on the pitch, and he could have helped them win. As it was, with every loss they suffered, every missed opportunity to score, John would be trapped on the bench unable to help. He couldn't take it.

Bald John rose from his chair and pressed a kiss firmly against John's forehead, cradling the back of his neck like he was holding a child. Grateful, John sank into his gentle touch. He knew Bald John was more angry than he was letting on. He also knew that Bald John would put his own anger aside to comfort him.

Add it to the list, John thought as he rested his head on the crook of Bald John's neck.

Three days later, John walked hesitantly into his weekly physiotherapy appointment. The fact that it was also the morning of their first match had put John in a sour mood. This mood was not improved by his meeting with his physiotherapist, Derek.

A cursory look at John's ankle had been enough to tell Derek that he had been pushing himself too hard. "I swear, John, if you've been over-running I'm going to tell Manager John to keep you on the bench until Christmas!" Derek threatened sharply. 

John said nothing.

"I know you're upset," Derek continued to reprimand him. "I get it, okay? But if you keep channeling your anger into pushing your body too hard too quickly, you won't help anything. In fact, you'll actively slow your own recovery. We've been through this. I will clear you for training when you have full strength, full range of motion, and most importantly when you can go through the movements required in your sport without pain. You understanding me here? How's the pain?"

"It's fine. No pain," John said quickly. It was a lie and a bad one at that. The look of cynical distrust on Derek's face was enough evidence of that.

John hung his head in shame – though his frustration did not abate. Derek was right of course, but John didn't want to listen. Frustration had been his constant companion ever since his injury, but it had been mounting in recent weeks. He had tried to control it, to remain calm. It was useless. He was annoyed and angry all the time.

Ashley, Hannah, Derek, Manager and Bald John had all told him time and time again that high ankle sprains take time. That he should pace himself. His place among the Swoodilypoopers wasn't in question. He just needed to focus on getting back to full health bit by bit. It was the bit by bit that John objected to. It had already been months. The first match of the new season was starting that afternoon, and John wouldn't be playing. Bitter frustration welled up inside of him.

Derek seemed to sense that his words would have little effect on John's attitude. He sighed, and they began their usual exercises.

Two hours later Derek dismissed him with a promise that they would see each other next Wednesday. John left as quickly as possible and jogged – lightly – to the County Ground locker room. He checked his watch as he went. If he had been playing he would have been inexcusably late, but as it was he knew no one would comment. He slipped quietly in the back while Manager John was giving his customary pre-match speech. It was only their first match of the season, but in a new and considerably more challenging league, every match was a must-win.

Manager John had told John in no uncertain terms that while he was recovering he did not need to attend the matches. He seemed to understand how much being forced to sit on the bench upset John, and was clearly trying to spare him the additional pain. But John had insisted on coming anyway. He couldn't just sit on the couch at home while the rest of the team, his team, played for a spot in the Championship. He needed to be there, even if it was difficult.

After the match, John couldn't shake his feeling of misery as he and Bald John began their walk home from the stadium. He was of course pleased that they had won, but it wasn't the same. Cteve didn't see the openings that John did. He couldn't anticipate Bald John's movements the way he needed to.

John walked back home in a daze. It was only when Bald John stopped abruptly outside of the front door that John even realized they had arrived. Bald John turned around and looked at John earnestly.

"I know things have been difficult for you. I know how sitting on the bench is making you miserable." John didn't have the energy to pretend otherwise, so he shrugged, resigned to the truth of Bald John's words. "Right, well I wanted to do something to cheer you up," Bald John continued. "I hate seeing you so sad, and I just… I wished I could do something to help."

"What did you do?" John felt a small thrill of anticipation. He quite liked a nice surprise every once in a while.

Instead of answering, Bald John just flashed him a quick smile and turned back around to open the door. His excitement mounted with every moment as Bald John led him down the hallway and into the living room. John turned into the room and gasped at what he beheld.

There, pressed against the wall of the living room, was the most beautiful piano John had ever laid eyes on. An upright Steinway made from rich mahogany. The whole thing was so pristine that it glistened in the sunlight streaming through the bay window. The music stand was overflowing with brand new books of sheet music. John could only stare at it in dumbstruck awe.

"Oh wow," he breathed after a moment. "It's gorgeous. It's… But it's too much. It must have cost a fortune!"

Bald John chucked. "John, we may only be in League One, but we're still footballers. Footballers, I might add, who don't exactly live beyond our means. I think I can afford to give my fiancé a piano. Besides, it's entirely selfish – I'm desperate to hear you play."

John stepped tentatively towards the piano, brushing his fingers lightly across the pristine white and black keys.

"Do you like it?" Bald John asked. He sounded almost hesitant, nervous.

John turned around but found he could barely even articulate the depth of his gratitude. "I love it. I love you. Thank you so much."

John smiled with pleasure and gratitude. It felt suddenly as though he hadn't smiled properly in weeks, months even. It was such a relief that he couldn't help from laughing in joy. Evidently Bald John's gift had had the desired effect.

Bald John grinned back at him, glowing with vicarious delight. "I'm going to go have a shower. I'll leave you two to get better acquainted."

John smiled still wider and turned back to the piano. A moment later he heard Bald John disappear up the stairs. Tentatively, as though approaching a wild animal, John walked forward and sat down. The firm leather of the new stool creaked under John’s weight as he pulled himself closer to the piano.

He picked up the books of sheet music from the stand in front of him. Bald John had clearly opted for a wide range. There were books of classical, jazz, and contemporary music. John even found a book of popular Disney songs tucked among them. Eventually, he picked out a book of relatively simple etudes that he hoped would ease him back into the instrument. He selected one of his favourites – a Rachmaninoff – and set it back on the stand.

Again he let his fingers drift lightly over the keys. It had been so long. What if all his skill was gone? The dexterity and strength of his fingers had surely faded. Even so, he pressed his fingertips to the keys and played. It was awkward, halting, and poorly paced, but felt fantastic. It was like coming up for air after being underwater for too long. All of John's frustration at his inability to contribute to his team, at the pain he was in, at the slow progress he was making with his injury – all of it was channelled directly into the keys of his new piano.

John was so absorbed in the music that he didn't even notice when Bald John came back downstairs. His bald fiancé leaned against the door-frame of the living room, and watched in silence. He stayed there for a long time, unnoticed by John, as the music filled their home.

* * *

In the weeks leading up to Matt's arrival, John had been turning a problem over in his mind. He noticed something about Bald John's behaviour towards the wedding that had been bothering him. The more he considered it, the more it concerned him.

Bald John had not explicitly said anything, but he had hinted on a number of occasions that he didn't plan to invite the rest of his family to their wedding.

Months ago, when they had first gotten engaged, John asked Bald John when his parents would be able to fly over. In response, Bald John had immediately become evasive. He mumbled about how he didn't think they'd be able to get the time away. A moment later he asked to put the wedding plans on hold until Matt arrived. In focusing on Matt's arrival, Bald John had – in his sly, non-confrontational way – evaded the question.

John had been willing to accept Bald John's evasions at first. Given John's slightly rocky relationship with his own parents, he didn't feel in any position to dictate Bald John's actions in that regard. The more he thought about it, though, the more John was convinced that this couldn't be ignored. This is Bald John we're talking about. Of course he wants his family at his wedding.

John resolved to discuss it with Matt once he arrived and if they managed to find some alone.

"John, hey, relax will you please? It'll be fine," John said. He leaned against the door frame of the living room, his arms casually crossed across his chest, following Bald John with his eyes. 

"I know, I just –" Bald John straightened one of the throw pillows on the couch for the third time. "I just want everything to be nice." He cast his eyes around the room. "Does the Jackson Pollock look crooked to you?"

John dutifully glanced up at the framed print hanging on the wall of the living room. It had already been readjusted thee times that afternoon.

"No," he replied firmly. "It looks perfectly straight. John, for crying out loud, it's only your brother. It's not like the bloody Queen is coming for an inspection!"

Pushing off from the wall, John moved forward and grabbed Bald John's hands, preventing him from wiping non-existent dust off the bookcase. Weaving his fingers through Bald John's, John pressed a soft kiss against his cheek.

"It will be fine," he repeated, more firmly.

Bald John chuckled, as though he had only just realised his behaviour might have been a tiny bit irrational. "Sorry."

"You would really think I should be the one freaking out," John pointed out with a smile. "I am meeting your favourite family member, after all. I fail this test, and the whole marriage lark might have to be abandoned entirely." Even as he spoke, John wrapped his arms around Bald John's waist confidently. He still couldn't feel anything but excited to meet the brother he had heard so much about.

"Well, Matt is an excellent judge of character, you know," Bald John said, his lips stretching into a teasing smile. "If he disapproves…"

"Are you trying to make me as big a wreck as you?" John asked, laughing.

If Bald John had a response, he never got a chance to say it. At that moment the doorbell echoed through the living room. The two of them paused, still wrapped in each others' arms.

"I thought his train wasn't getting in until half-two," John said.

"That's what he told me…" Bald John hesitated. "Maybe it's someone else?"

"Only one way to find out."

Bald John moved first. He extracted himself from John's arms and walked away, out of the living room and towards the front door. John lingered behind in the living room, suddenly unsure. He sat down at the piano stool, decided that looked too staged and quickly stood up again. He moved over to the couch, but realised there was no point in sitting down when he would immediately stand up again to meet Matt. He could hear voices at the front door now. It was definitely Matt. He was here.

John wiped some non-existent dust off the bookcase.

The voices were getting louder now as they neared the living room. "I thought your train wasn't getting in until two-thirty," Bald John was saying.

"Yeah, sorry," Matt said. It's really Matt, John thought. He sounded exactly like Bald John. "I got to the station ridiculously early, so I jumped on an earlier train."

"That's Dad's influence for you," Bald John chuckled. "I still arrive at airports four hours before my flight. But you should have said! I would have come to meet your train." 

The brothers turned the corner into the living room. John saw Matt shrug in response to Bald John's comment. "Doesn't matter," he said. His tone was one that suggested he had no further interest in talking about trains. There was something – someone – much more interesting that held his attention.

John couldn't help but blush under the look Matt was giving him. His eyes were the same swirling grey as Bald John's, and all of their attention was trained on John. The look on Matt's face was intensely curious, but there was also something familiar about it. He had the same relaxed kindness in his expression that Bald John did, and John drew some courage from that. In fact, Matt was – in almost every way – the spitting image of Bald John. The same pale skin and broad shoulders. The same long face and sharp features. The only significant difference was his relatively thick head of dusty-blonde hair. Whatever genetic quirk had afflicted the other men in the Green household seemed to have passed him over.

It was probably only a couple of seconds, but John felt as though he had been under Matt's gaze for an age.

"Matty," Bald John said at last. "This is John." He gave John an encouraging smile from over Matt's shoulder.

"Hi," John said. His own voice sounded sharp and weird in his ears. He walked forward a couple of steps and offered his hand to shake.

Matt reached out immediately and accepted John's outstretched hand. His grip was warm and firm. He looked John directly in the eyes and smiled. "Hey. It's really great to finally meet you. I've heard a lot about you." 

The way he emphasized 'a lot' made John think there was a joke he was missing. A quick glance over at Bald John suggested this was true; he was smiling and the familiar blush was colouring his ears.

John grinned. "That sounds ominous."

"All good things," Bald John promised quietly.

"I'll say!" Matt laughed. His accent, John noticed, was much thicker than Bald John's. "The way Johnny talks about you, I half-expected you to have a halo."

Bald John blushed still deeper. John just laughed. "Don't believe a word of it," he warned Matt. "John has a much higher opinion of me than I deserve."

Matt again fixed John with a kind gaze. "We'll see."

The afternoon passed quite well. Matt seemed to have recognized that he had embarrassed Bald John and went out of his way to be kind and generous towards them both for the rest of the day. This struck John as strange only because it was so different to the type of relationship that he had with Ashley. They expressed their love through mutual teasing and mocking. Matt and Bald John, it seemed, expressed their love through loving behaviour. The sincerity of it was so foreign to John.

The Johns took Matt out for a tour of Swindon later that day. They pointed out the major sites – which really just consisted of walking up to the stadium. Much as they loved Swindon, it was not famed for its tourist attractions. When they tried to get inside the Country Ground, the boys found the doors were locked. The Johns were disappointed that they couldn't give Matt the insider's tour, but he would at least still get a chance to see the pitch. He was attending his first ever Swoodilypoopers match the following day. They wandered back down the hill towards the centre of town after while. Their tour eventually culminated with a walk around the lake at the centre of Queen's Park.

John had been silently worried that when all was said and done, neither he nor Matt would live up to the hype. Both of them had clearly been given high expectations of one another's character. There was a risk that that kind of pressure would lead to a disappointing reality. John needn't have worried. Matt Green was every inch the funny, kind, self-effacing young man that Bald John had built him up to be. It was downright impossible to feel uncomfortable or unwelcome in his presence. When he asked questions about John's upbringing, his interests and his family, John believed it was out of genuine interest as opposed to any sense of conversational obligation.

If there was any beat of awkwardness, it came when Bald John insisted that Matt sleep in his room that night.

"No, really, Johnny. I don't want to relegate you to the couch in your own house," Matt had insisted.

Bald John shifted uncomfortably at this.

"Well…" John spoke up, "to be honest, Bald John hasn't slept in his bed all week, so another night shouldn't matter."

John wasn't sure where his sudden cheek had come from, but he felt comfortable around Matt. He was beginning to speak to him the way he would speak to Hannah or Ashley. At least a little.

"John!" Bald John admonished, reddening. Clearly this was not a topic that usually came up between the brothers.

For his part, Matt just laughed and took Bald John up on his offer of a bed.

The next day, rather than sitting on the bench, John decided to join Matt in the stands for their match against Stockport. Keenly aware that this would be his first chance to interact with Matt on a one-to-one basis, John was hopeful that they would get a chance to talk about the wedding.

They left Bald John at the players' entrance and continued around to one of the many side entrances that would lead to their seats. They spoke very little as they found their entrance and wandered through the interior of the stadium along with the other spectators of the day's match.

Eventually, they found their seats: a few rows back and just to the left of centre-field. John glanced down their row and noticed Alice in her usual seat with her boys sitting on either side of her. They smiled in recognition of one another. John suddenly understood, in a way that had never before occurred to him, what it was like for her to attend every match. She was an integral, but largely unnoticed, member of their extended family. For the first time, John himself felt not like a player, but like a family member.

The only difference being that John did not go quite as unnoticed as the average family member. 

It only occurred to him after they had taken their seats that of all the places in the world where he was likely to get recognized, the stands of the County Ground was at the top of the list. Swindon Town supporters ogled and waved and called out to him. John could do nothing but awkwardly smile and wave back.

It had been an adjustment – the recognition thing. Immediately following his injury John had strangers wishing him a quick recovery in the street. Bald John had told him pacifyingly that they were just trying to be nice. Objectively John understood that, but it still made him uncomfortable. It was unnerving to him that anyone beyond his own friends and family cared about his life. Be that as it may, it was the nature of his chosen career path, and it wasn't all bad.

John nearly jumped clean out of his seat in surprise when he felt something tapping his shoulder. Whipping around, he came face to face with a young boy. He looked about six – though John didn't have a lot of experience with children, so he couldn't be sure. Another man, presumably his dad, was sitting just behind him. The boy had evidently vacated his plastic folding seat and crept forward in order to tap John's shoulder. The boy wore a child-sized Swoodilypoopers jersey that still fell to his knees. He was clutching the match programme in one hand.

"Hey there," John said. The boy blinked at him rapidly, clearly nervous out of his skin. The man accompanying him leaned forward and put a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder, urging him forward.

"You… umm… you're Other John Green, aren't you?" the boy asked, his voice broken with timidity.

 _Bennett_ , John nearly corrected, but thought better of it. He supposed the mistake was understandable – there were a lot of Johns to keep track of. "Yeah," he told the boy, giving him an encouraging smile. "Yeah, I am."

"How's your foot?" The boy, John noticed, was incapable of making prolonged eye contact. His gaze flitted to the concrete floor of the stands and didn't rise again.

"My foot is better, thanks," John replied. "I should get to play again soon."

"That's good," the boy said, still addressing the concrete.

"Was there something you wanted to ask Other John, Andy?" The man, Andy's father, prompted.

"Yeah…" Andy said. "Would you – would you sign my programme?" Without raising his eyes, Andy thrust his programme forward towards John.

"Of course!" John said brightly. "Do you have a pen?"

Andy finally looked up at this. He seemed devastated as it dawned on him that he didn't have a pen.

"I've got one," Matt piped in. He fished a pen out of his jeans pocket and handed it to John. He accepted it with a quiet thanks and quickly signed the boy's programme. 

"Do you think we're going to win today?" John asked the boy as he handed the programme back to him.

The boy perked up at this and nodded his head enthusiastically. "Yeah," he said.

"Yeah?" John smiled. "Me too. Do you think Bald John is going to score?"

Again the boy nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, he always scores! Bald John is my favourite."

John laughed outright at that. "He's my favourite too."

"Come on, Andy," the man said. He stepped forward and began to usher the boy back to their seats. "Let's leave Other John in peace." The man looked over at John, clearly excited in his own way to have met a member of the Swoodilypoopers. "Good luck with your recovery. I really hope you have a great season," he said to John.

"Thanks," John replied. And he meant it. "Enjoy the match, Andy," he called out as they began to walk away.

Andy turned back to him and smiled, considerably more relaxed than he had been at the beginning of their encounter. "Bye, Other John Green," he said, before running up to catch his dad's hand.

The two of turned up the stairs. John watched their retreating backs for another moment, but quickly lost track of them in the crowd.

 _Other John Green,_ he mused. _I like the sound of that._

* * *

 

Of course Bald John did score. Twice in just the first half. Watching matches without being able to participate hadn't gotten any easier, but John found himself enjoying it on this occasion. The frustration was still there, but Matt's enthusiasm was infectious. For Matt, the whole sport held such novelty. He understood the basics, but was enthralled by the demonstration of skill and tactics that he saw on the field. Though he never would have said so, Matt had clearly been one of those people who had seen football as dull and mindless. John was sure his mind had been changed in the first 45 minutes of the match.

Matt sat back in his seat when the half-time whistle blew, beaming. "That was fun!" he said. "I used to watch Johnny's football games – American football, I mean. I always was more of a football man. But this is… this is really fun!"

"I'm glad you think so," John said. "I know Bald John will certainly be pleased to hear it."

Matt chuckled. "You all really call him Bald John, huh? I thought that was some kind of team joke."

John shrugged. "It is, but I guess it just stuck. It suits him, I think."

"Sure," Matt said mildly, "what with being bald and all."

John laughed. "Exactly."

John sat back and looked out at the empty pitch. Most of the spectators had taken the break to go get a fresh cup of tea, or a pork pie, or whatever other terrible food they served at the concession counters inside the stadium. John, however, preferred to sit out in the stands. He took in the environment surrounding him. Some of the pitch maintenance men were cleaning up the ground, filling the air with the smell of fresh grass and dirt. John felt like he was a kid again and going to Liverpool matches. It had been such a long time since he had last experienced a match as a fan.

The view was different from the stands. He experienced all the waves of emotion along with the crowd. It was easy to forget how invested the fans were in the team's successes and failures. The Swoodilypoopers carried the hopes of a whole town on their backs. That afternoon John allowed himself to get swooped up in the town's enthusiasm. He stood up and cheered with the rest of them when Bald John scored – both times. He sulked in a collective sullen silence when Stockport gained one back at the very end of the half. He experienced the whole match like it was a story he was watching unfold in front of him. A story where the end had not yet been written.

Of course he had still been obsessing over the details. He was frustrated by the passes that the defensemen had been practicing for hours in recent practices and still weren't getting right. He was distracted by the sloppy formation of the mid-fielders during their last free kick. He also spotted the small improvements. Beef Stock's control of the ball, for example, was noticeably better than it had been last season. And Fat Lucas' reflexes were sharper than usual. Clearly the drinking ban was working. It was impossible for John to forget his personal involvement with the Swoodilypoopers, but it was fun – once in a while – to pretend he was like Matt, or like Andy and his dad. Just a fan.

It took John a moment to notice that Matt was looking at him. John felt more like he was being casually studied. Assessed in some way.

"What's up?" John asked mildly.

Matt only then seemed to realise that he had been staring. "Sorry," he said.

His ears reddened the exact same way that Bald John's did when he was embarrassed. The similarity made John smile.

"I was just thinking," Matt said after a moment. "I really liked what you said to that boy. Andy."

John thought back over his conversation with the boy. "What did I say?" he asked. He couldn't remember anything remarkable from the conversation.

"Nothing specific, I guess. It was just your way with him." Matt shrugged but didn't say anything more.

John was left to wonder what that meant. He presumed it could only be a good thing, but it was more than a little baffling. He remembered Bald John telling him that Matt was an excellent judge of character. If he were to guess, John thought that Matt might have finally passed judgement on his character. Though John could only wonder what conclusions he had drawn.

A few minutes later, the crowds began returning to the stands and taking their seats back up. There couldn't have been more than a few minutes before the start of the second half. Thinking that he might not have another chance to speak with Matt alone, John dove in to what had been bothering him.

"Listen," he said, drawing Matt's attention back to him, "there's something I wanted to ask you about."

Matt looked over at him. "Sure. Is something wrong?"

John hesitated. "No," he said slowly, "but I'm worried about John."

Matt's mild expression shifted sharply. "Worried how?"

"I don't think he's going to invite your parents to the wedding," John said. The direct approach had always been John's preference, and he thought Matt would appreciate it. "He hasn't said it in so many words, exactly, but I can tell he's not planning on inviting them. It doesn't make any sense, though, because he obviously wants them to be there. I was just wondering if you knew something I don't."

Matt didn't immediately answer. Much like Bald John, he was evidently not the type to speak until he was sure of exactly what he wanted to say.

"I love my brother," he said at last, "but he does have a bit of a self-defeating streak."

John wasn't sure how to respond to this. "He's been saying that they won't be able to get the time away," he explained. 

Matt sighed, exasperated. "Oh, Johnny. He can be such a cowardly fool sometimes. He's probably even managed to convince himself of that. The truth is that they've completely cleared their calendar, which he would know if he would just ask them. Since you haven't set a date, my parents have no idea when the wedding is, so they've just kept their calendar completely clear. John, they desperately want to come. I think they realise that they didn't respond as well as they could have to the news of your engagement, and they want to make up for it by coming to the wedding. The problem is that they can't afford the flights, so they are completely reliant on Johnny offering to fly them over. Meaning that they are reliant on him actually inviting them to the wedding. None of which they have said out loud, mind you. Heaven forbid my family actually communicate. This is just stuff I've picked up."

John looked over at Matt, awed. Bald John had mentioned that he was insightful, but damn. "Why won't he just ask?"

The match had resumed, but neither of them were paying it any attention. The noise that began to surround them was a relief though, as it meant they no longer needed to whisper.

"I think he's convinced himself that they don't want to come. It's Bald John in a nutshell, really. He doesn't like to ask anything of anyone. I think he's always afraid they'll say no."

John snorted that this. "He certainly asks a lot of the Swoodilypoopers." 

"That's different though," Matt maintained. "He pushes the team because he wants all of you to succeed. He does it for you, not for himself. What he hates, what he is so incapable of, is asking for something personal. So for example, when he about fifteen he once walked three miles into town in the pouring rain, just because he didn't want to bother our mom by asking her for a ride! He can't even ask people for small favours, let alone their love. It's not like he thinks he's unworthy of it. He actually has a great sense of self-worth. I think he just hates the vulnerability of it, even with his own family. Especially with us, actually."

This made sense to John, and certainly tracked with what he knew about Bald John. Even with their own relationship, John sometimes wondered how long it would have taken Bald John to make a move if John had not initiated it. Bald John didn't like to be indebted to people, and he seemed to think the best way to avoid that was to never request anything of anyone. John quietly kicked himself for not having picked up on this sooner. Matt was right, of course. Bald John wanted his parents there, and his parents wanted to be there. Now he just needed to convince Bald John to extend the invitation.

"I'll speak to him," Matt said, reading John's mind. "It's what my family keeps me around for, really. To interpret their ridiculous ways."

John chuckled. 

The crowd suddenly roared in approval, drawing them both back to the match. Fat Lucas, it appeared, had stopped a particularly challenging shot off a sharp cross. John and Matt picked up the cheer along with the rest of the crowd, and all conversation ended in favour of watching the match.

The three of them celebrated the Swoodilypooper victory that evening by going to the Giraffe with the rest of the team. Lee and Matt bonded over American things that John had very little context for. Most of these things sounded like food stuffs and old TV-shows, but he gave up trying to follow their conversation after a while. He had no idea what 'cheddar popcorn' was, but it sounded disgusting.

Fat Lucas, John noticed, had a can of coke before heading off early. John felt a stab of guilt over this. Maybe we should start looking for somewhere else to hang out.

This concern was forgotten, however, when Managed John dropped by. He shook hands vigorously with Matt, grinned at all the players, and bought them a round of drinks. Manager John didn't stay for long, but he did have time to share a small announcement.

"I've just had words with Derek," he said, grinning like a child on Christmas, "and he says OJ should be able to start playing again next week!"

This was news even to John, who shot up in excitement and, giving up on his no-hugging policy just that once, embraced Manager John enthusiastically. The team laughed and cheered in approval.

The evening passed quickly after that. 

Matt left for London early the following morning, after promising to come back for another visit once he'd settled into his new flat in London. John and Matt parted at the door with a short, warm hug. Bald John, however, insisted on walking Matt down to the station.

Left alone in the house, John took his seat up at the piano.

Mozart's Piano Sonata 12, in F major. It wasn't a difficult piece, but it had always been a favourite of John's, ever since he first learned it at the age of eleven. Since receiving his piano, he had been studiously re-learning it. During any moment when John was not trying to repair the damage that had been inflicted on his ankle, he was trying to master this piece once again. He was nearly there, now. He tinkered with bits and pieces of it, making sure he had them down.

Bald John arrived back home a few minutes later.

"Hey," John said when he got in. "Matt get off alright?"

Bald John nodded. His features were more reserved than usual, but John had no other sense of whether or not Matt had spoken with him about their parents. He was tempted to ask about it, but Bald John changed the subject before he got a chance.

"How's the sonata coming?" he asked.

"I think I'm ready to give it a proper go," John said, glancing at the music propped up on the stand. Bald John took a seat on the couch and picked up his book. Looking over the back at the couch, he flashed John an encouraging smile.

"Shoot," he said. "I'll just sit here. Reading. Not listening." He flipped open his book – a biography about one of Rome's Emperors.

This was something of a system they had developed. Bald John liked to be in the room when John was playing, but it made John nervous. The constant audience was intimidating, especially while he still felt rusty. An unspoken arrangement had developed as a result. Bald John would pretend he wasn't listening, and John pretended to believe him.

John settled himself at the piano, took a deep breath, and began to play. It was too fast, and he was rushing a few of the pauses, but he didn't care. Not for the first time in the past few weeks, John allowed himself to be carried away with the music. It filled him, body and soul. The jaunty notes burst forth, then calmed, then burst again with renewed vigour. It reminded him of the ebb and flow of a football match. It even elicited a similar joy in John. It was not the same as the elation that he felt when playing a match in earnest, but it was deeply satisfying in its own way.

John finished the first movement with a flourish, and couldn't resist glancing over at Bald John. His book lay closed in his lap, and he was sitting straight up in his seat. At least his back was still to John, so they could both continue pretending that he wasn't listening. John turned back to the piano and picked up from where he left off.

The joy of the first movement gave way to a much more contemplative second. Everything, right down to John's breathing, slowed. The music gradually built back up from utter stillness to a rousing fit of passion that filled every corner of their small house. The second movement followed seamlessly into the third, building beyond the fits of energy from the first movement into an ambitious, glorious finale. As he completed the final bars, John felt he had travelled through the gamut of human emotion. By rights he should be exhausted, but the dazzling final movement could leave him nothing but joyous. He turned around in the piano stool, looking over at Bald John to gauge his response to the piece.

Bald John's book lay completed abandoned on the coffee table. He was learning over the back of the couch, watching John with rapt attention. Nervous – though also pleased at the response – John gave him a small smile.

"What did you think?" John fidgeted with the edge of the piano stool, suddenly self-conscious. "It wasn't perfect. I got a little carried away in the third movement. The speed got away from me and I lost some of the control. And my coordination could have been better, particularly in the lyrical –"

"It was incredible," Bald John interrupted before John could continue.

John flushed with pleasure. He knew that was just the kind of thing someone was supposed to say, but it was still nice to hear. Ever the self-effacing Brit, however, John couldn't just let a compliment stand unchallenged. "It really wasn't. You just couldn't hear all the mistakes."

Bald John wasn't taking the bait. He simply looked John square in the eyes. "It was brilliant. Sensational, truly. You don't have to believe me, but I wish you would. You deserve to understand how talented you are."

John blushed still deeper. "Thanks," he murmured. It was the closest he could come to accepting praise.

Bald John, undeterred, continued to gaze at him. "I am so very much in love with you. You know that, don't you?"

Nodding, John raised his eyes to Bald John's. "I do," he promised.

Suddenly, Bald John was laughing. "God, I want to marry you," he said, still gazing from his position over the back of the couch.

John laughed in return. "Well, that's good, since we kind of already agreed!"

"No, I mean it. Let's get married." 

"What, now?" John was still pretty sure he was joking, but the earnest expression on Bald John's face was beginning to make him suspect otherwise.

"Well… no," Bald John conceded. "Not right at this moment. But let's start planning. Make this happen. How's… two weeks?"

"Two weeks?" John asked, incredulous.

"Two weeks," Bald John repeated. "Can your parents make it at such short notice?"

"Probably," John shrugged, "but I'll only invite mine if you promise to invite yours. I swear you'll regret it if you don't, John. Just… talk to them at least. Please?"

Bald John smiled gently. "Don't worry, Matt and I talked about it too. I get it. Really, I do. I probably would have invited them even if you hadn't recruited my brother to talk to me. I just… I guess I needed to come to it in my own time."

"But you will fly them out?" John asked.

"I will. If my family wants to come – however many of them – they will all be welcome."

John smiled in pleasure and relief. "That's good," he said. "I'm sure they'll be thrilled."

Bald John smiled back. "Can you call Hannah and get her to organize everything? She's been chomping at the bit to do it anyway, so why not let her?"

John could only continue to smile, still amazed. 

Bald John was such a measured person, and this shift was abrupt, but John thought he understood where it was coming from. A part of it was Bald John's excitement about finally deciding to invite his family. The other part, John suspected, was that The Unspoken Thing had resurfaced. They could never have a big, fancy wedding. They couldn't invite their old friends or their extended family. They couldn't even invite their teammates – the men they considered their second family. Bald John was trying to spare them the pain of having to hide their excitement, their love, and their celebration. At least, he was trying to make sure that particular pain wasn't any more drawn out than it needed to be. John could certainly appreciate the instinct.

"Okay," he said. "Yeah, let's do it. Yes. Let's get married in two weeks." John did a bit of quick mental math. "The 7th. Tuesday the 7th of October, we're going to get married." The more he said it the more it started to feel real. We're getting married in two weeks.

Leaping gracefully over the back of the couch, Bald John moved to stand in front of John. He was grinning like a punch-drunk fool.

"Alright, then, we have a lot of work to do! You have some phone calls to make and I have some flights to book." Bald John moved to retrieve his laptop from the coffee table, but John reached out a hand to stop him.

"Wait," John said. 

He tugged at the belt loop of Bald John's jeans. Bald John obediently moved towards him and allowed John to capture his lips in a deep, languid kiss. He felt Bald John relax in his arms and respond enthusiastically. His fingers ghosted across John's chest, fiddling gently with the zipper of his hoodie, before wrapping a firm arm around his waist. John stroked the smooth skin at the back of Bald John's neck, pulling him closer. For a while they were blissfully lost in their mounting passion for one another. Eventually, John drew back, smiling against Bald John's lips.

"Okay," he said when they finally parted. "Now we have a lot of work to do." 

* * *

Leeroy Williamson was not a great thinker. It wasn't for lack of intelligence; it was rather that he had a simple, straightforward approach to life. An honest soul, he believed that on the whole everyone else was too. He trusted in the kindness of strangers because he was kind to strangers. He believed that people told him the truth because he told people the truth. This slightly naïve worldview had caused him some trouble in the past, but it had never been enough to shake his faith that humanity was, at its core, a decent, honourable lot.

He didn't have the patience for most scholarly pursuits. He didn't keep up with the latest scientific advances. He didn't study the platforms of different political parties. He didn't know anything about the conflict in the Middle East, beyond the fact that there was one. Ultimately, he lacked the thirst for knowledge that was required to become well informed. What he did have was a good heart, an excellent sense of humour, and a genuine love for his life and the people in it. And that, he felt, was all that really mattered.

Lee was also a social creature. He felt most alive when in the company of those he loved. In fact, he could barely tolerate being on his own for more than a few of hours. It wasn't that he hated his own company, but he got so lonely. Lee was the type of person who instinctively made decisions based on what he thought would bring himself and those around him the greatest amount of happiness. This approach to life endeared him to people. He was well-liked by acquaintances, loved by friends, and hated by no one. And he was happy.

Though at present moment he was mostly just exhausted. Their away match that afternoon had felt like a marathon with an obstacle course thrown in for good measure. They were literally in a whole new league now, which presented a new set of challenges. Matches against teams they had never faced before were hard to predict: they could be a cakewalk, or they could be a slow torture. In this case it was the latter, but it had been worth it. Back-to-back 87 and 90-minute goals, first from Bald John, then from the newly re-instated Other John, had seen them take a narrow victory.

Spirits were high as they loaded onto the bus. Lee was more than ready to go home after that match. He walked up alongside Fitz as they climbed onto the bus. Leading the way, Fitz picked an available window seat, leaving Lee to follow into the adjacent aisle seat. The cushions were lumpy and dug uncomfortably into Lee's back. He pushed back against them, trying to find a tolerable position for the long drive back from Leeds. A minute later, the Johns filed onto the bus, one behind the other. Other John was laughing at something Bald John had said. They both looked more relaxed and at ease than Lee had ever seen them. Still laughing, they took the seats in the row ahead of Lee and Fitz. Bit by bit, the bus filled with the rest of the team. Voluptuous was already on the phone to Alice by the time he'd taken his seat. Patrick and Fat Lucas were sitting together towards the front. A laptop was open across Lucas' lap as they watched the highlights from the other matches that day.

Manager John was the last to board the bus. "That's everyone, Ed," he said brightly to the driver. "Take us home."

The bus rumbled, revved, and pulled them onto the road. For a few minutes the whole bus was quiet as they drove onto the motorway and took off south. Lee supposed that the team was tired from the match, but he couldn't bear protracted silences. He turned to Fitz, who had his head resting against the window. His eyes were closed, and he looked as though he might be asleep.

"So, buddy!" Lee said loudly. Fitz jolted, his eyes snapped open, and he pushed off from the window to look over at his friend. Fitz had clearly been asleep. Lee pretended not to notice. "Do you wanna do a poker night tonight? I'll host?"

Fitz rubbed his eyes and smiled. "Sounds good." He cast his eyes around the bus and found Cteve sitting across the aisle from them. "C!" he shouted.

Cteve looked up and over at Fitz. He didn't even bother to pull out his headphone when he called back across to bus. "What?"

"Poker night! Lee's hosting!" Fitz shouted back.

Cteve shrugged and nodded. "Yeah, wicked!"

Fitz hadn't really been asking. Cteve had yet to miss a poker night since Lee and Fitz started organizing them two years ago, and he wasn't likely to start now. Cteve, Lee, Fitz and Voluptuous had been with the team for a long time – all of them had been recruited before Manager John joined the team – and that had caused a kind of nostalgic bond to form between them.

Fat Lucas had of course been with the team the longest of all, but he'd always preferred to spend time with Patrick and the other secondary coaches. Lee supposed it was understandable – he was much closer in age to the assistant coaches than to most of the team members. It was a funny thing about their team: age had a significant impact on their social interactions. At twenty-four, Lee was considered solidly middle-aged. He certainly wasn't one of the children. The so-called Boys of the Second-String: Bodin Bodin, Ramsden, Picard Smith and Bolzoni – kids hardly old enough to buy a pint from the Giraffe. Lee sometimes felt sorry for them. They were Swoodilypoopers just like the rest of them, but they were generally perceived as being on a lower rung of the social ladder. The Boys, for example, would never have been invited to Poker Night. Any group has its stratifications, and the Swoodilypoopers were no different.

Lee was drawn out of his reverie by the sound of Fitz gently kicking the back of Bald John's seat. The Johns both turned around and peered through the gap between their seats to look at Lee and Fitz.

"Can I help you with something, Fitz?" Bald John asked mildly.

"Fancy doing a poker night tonight?"

The Johns glanced at each other and broke into identical grins. When they turned back to Fitz and Lee, though, their features were composed. They looked almost sorry.

"We can't, sorry." Bald John said. "We already have plans."

"Yeah, um, my parents are in town," OJ said. "Bald John's too," he added as an afterthought.

"Both of your parents are in town at the same time?" Lee raised an eyebrow in surprise. That seemed sort of strange.

"Yeah, I know, eh?" OJ shrugged. "It's such a weird coincidence."

It is a weird coincidence, Lee thought. Since the Johns acknowledged it as such, though, he had no reason to believe it was anything else.

"Alright, well you'll have to join us for the next one, yeah?" he said. "Have fun with you parents!"

"Thanks." 

The Johns turned back around and ducked their heads towards each other. If they were speaking, the sounds of the bus roaring down the motorway drowned it out.

Lee was getting restless. Why did Leeds have to be so far away? They had been driving for two hours already, and there was still another two to go. Fitz had nodded off again, and Lee had enough heart to let him sleep this time. He fidgeted with the armrest. There was a small tear in the worn fabric and pieces of fluff from the cushion underneath were poking out.

The sound of Other John's cell phone ringing from the seat in front of him drew Lee's attention. Activity of any kind counted as entertainment in his current state of boredom. 

The phone cut off mid-ring when OJ answered it. "Hello?" he said. "Dad?" he said a little louder.

Lee peered discretely through the space between the seats. His only view was of Bald John, who had sat up from his position against the window when OJ had spoken.

"Dad?" OJ repeated. "What are you talking about? Where are you?" There was a brief pause. "No, we're still on the bus." Another pause. "The match was in Leeds, Dad. It's a long drive. I don't know, an hour and a half, maybe? I did say that we wouldn't be home until 8." His voice was edged with irritation. "Yes, I did."

"What's going on?" Bald John asked, looking across at OJ with interest.

"Hold on, Dad," Other John said. There was a brief shuffling noise where OJ fiddled with his phone. A moment later he spoke to Bald John in a lower voice. "They're early. They're standing outside the house, ringing the bell and waiting for one of us to let them in. What am I supposed to do with them?"

Lee watched a smile break out across Bald John's features. "Send them to the Giraffe," he said. "I think my parents said they're going there for dinner. Just tell your family to seek out the moustachioed clan."

"You shouldn't even joke about that!"

"I'm serious," Bald John insisted.

"So my parents – without Ashley as a buffer, I might add – should go have lunch with almost your entire family?"

Bald John chuckled. "Why not? They're going to meet eventually. Besides, my family isn't that intimidating."

It was Other John's turn to laugh. "I'm not worried about my parents, I'm worried about yours. My parents can be quite… intense. Some might say humourless."

"I'm sure they're not that bad," Bald John said evenly. "Even if they are, Matt and Nate have plenty of humour to go around. I'm sure they'd be willing to share."

"Funny," OJ replied dryly. There was a shuffling noise as OJ presumably un-muted his phone. "Dad? Hi. So, John's family is at a pub up the road, you can go meet them there for dinner if you want? Great."

He proceeded to direct his parents to the Giraffe's Head. After he finished and hung up, Lee heard him slump back against his seat.

"Remind me again why I wanted my parents here?" he said.

"Because they're you're parents," Bald John replied gently. He had a strange look on his face. There was understanding, compassion, and something else that Lee couldn't identify.

Suddenly, Other John was laughing. "Oh, I guess having to deal with your family is a part of the point, isn't it?"

The point of what? Lee wondered absently.

Lee watched, bemused, as Bald John too began to laugh. "I guess so. At least we're doing that part right."

Bald John's good humour fell when he noticed Lee for the first time. Their eyes met through the gap between the seats. Lee looked down immediately, but it was too late. He'd been caught eavesdropping. He looked back up and gave Bald John an apologetic smile. Sure, he'd been eavesdropping, but it wasn't like they'd been talking about anything important. 

When the bus finally rolled up to the County Ground a few hours later, Fitz and Lee had managed to confirm both Voluptuous and Peter for the evening. With a full table, their plans for a poker night were all set. Lee scrambled out of the bus with his heavy duffel bag on one shoulder. The first thing he saw was Hannah. She was leaning against the passenger-side door of her car.

"Hiya." She waved to him when he stepped down onto the pavement. She and Peter usually rode separately with the press equipment to and from the away games. Without fail they always managed to beat the team bus back to the County Ground. Lee kind of liked it – it meant he always had someone to meet him coming off the bus.

He sauntered up to her with a cheeky grin. When he was close enough, Hannah leaned up to kiss him. Feigning obedience, Lee leaned towards her. Then, at the last moment, he stepped back and ruffled her hair instead. Hannah scrunched her face up at him in annoyance. She hated it – or at least she pretended to – when he ruffled her hair. Or poked her, or kissed her nose, or did anything else that could be considered cutesy. Which was precisely why he did it as often as possible. She was adorable when she was annoyed. Hannah began running a hand through her hair, trying to repair the damage he had done.

"You know what tomorrow is?" he asked, tapping her lightly on the nose.

Hannah's hand dropped at his words and she looked at him sharply. "No?" she said. Her voice sounded weird. He couldn't tell what was different about it, exactly, but it was louder or squeakier. Maybe she was worried? Or upset? Or she might be excited. He had no idea. It was definitely something, though. Deciding not to worry about it, Lee carried on.

"It's our five month anniversary!" he said, proud of himself for having remembered. He felt sure that Hannah would get excited about this; he had been led to believe that this was the kind of thing that mattered to girlfriends.

Lee was surprised, therefore, when her face fell. "I – oh," she said. Her eyes dropped to the side and she stared at nothing for a moment. "I'm so sorry, Lee. I completely forgot. I mean, five months isn't really one of the important ones, you know? And I… I have to work. With the Swoodilypooper retrospective issue of the Gazette coming up, my boss asked me write some of the columns. You know how much I want to start doing more on the journalism side of things, and this is a really great opportunity. So I was just going to… work tomorrow. All day – all day working."

There was something slightly off about her, but Lee dismissed it as her being upset that she couldn't celebrate their five month anniversary with him. 

"Okay," Lee said. A feeling of disappointment settled in his chest, but he mostly felt sorry that she had so much work to do. "That's fine, another time."

"I'm really sorry," Hannah said again.

"Don't worry about it," he assured her. He leaned down and kissed her properly this time. "Oh, hey, we've got a poker night tonight. The Johns had to bail, so we've got a spare seat if you want to come? We don't usually have girls there, but something tells me you could keep up."

Hannah laughed. "Yeah, I reckon I could manage to keep up with the sheer poker genius that is a drunk Cteve Austin. I've heard some of Pete's stories. Didn't he once fold with a flush because he thought one of the diamonds was a heart?"

Lee let out a hearty laugh at the memory. He and Fitz had overdone it on plying Cteve with whiskey that time. From then on they'd agreed to keep his drinking capped at half a bottle. Otherwise it just wasn't fair.

"Yup, that definitely happened. See, you'll fit right in," he teased her.

"Aren't you a charmer," she said dryly. She seemed about to accept his offer when a different look crossed her face. "Much as I'd love to take all your money, I can't do tonight. I already have plans. Another time?"

"Another time," he promised. He could imagine her sitting with the guys drinking Cteve's whiskey and smoking one of Fitz's cigars. It was definitely something he wanted to see.

Lee, Fitz and Cteve had organized their first ever poker night only a few weeks after they joined the team. All three of them had become Swoodilypoopers during the same transfer window.

For his part, Lee still remembered his own recruitment vividly. He had been a freshman at Washington State, playing for their college soccer team. He'd only joined the team because he thought it sounded fun, though he'd had no real attachment to the sport. He didn't even follow the international competitions back then. Like with most things, Lee had only a passing interest in it. That changed on a random afternoon in March. A man in a suit and tie had approached Lee after a match and asked him if he would like to move to England and play professional football for the Bristol Rovers. The man was, Lee learned, the team's manager.

It took Lee fifteen minutes to decide.

It wasn't that he had hated living in the states, or going to college. He'd had friends and family that meant a lot to him. Giving all of that up had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done. Even so, Lee never once regretted his decision. More than anything else, he had been bored. He'd had no direction, no real passion, and no lofty ambitions. Indeed, no guarantee that he would ever get out of the state he had been born and raised in. He wanted adventure or, failing that, he wanted something new. So he'd packed up, dropped out of college, and joined the Bristol Rovers.

He only played with them for a year before his coach decided he hadn't been worth the investment. As quickly as that, Lee was traded away. He was bounced around half a dozen different teams in Leagues One and Two before eventually landing with the Swoodilypoopers. It hadn't been love at first sight. Not even close. The manager before John had been an old, cranky, apathetic man who barely noticed whether they won or lost. Nevertheless, the team wormed its way into Lee's heart. The players were all rough around the edges, as was their ability to play football. Lee liked the manic, unpolished way they played. He gradually came to love the sport, the town, and especially the team. Poker nights had been a large part of making him feel at home in Swindon.

"Have any of you guys noticed something odd about the Johns recently?" Cteve asked as he took a pull on his cigar. "I fold," he added as an afterthought, dropping his cards face-down on the table.

"Odd, how?" Lee asked.

"Call," Voluptuous said quietly, tossing his money into the centre of the table.

"I don't know," Cteve said. "Just… don't they seem kind of happy? Like, they're smiling all the time. It's weird."

"Oh my god," Lee laughed. "Call the presses, the Johns are happy."

Peter raised his glass in acknowledgement. "No need, I'm already here." He took on a false air of an investigative journalist. Miming a pen and notebook he turned to Cteve. "What's this you say about the Johns being happy? I may have to launch an inquiry."

The men around the table laughed.

"Alright, alright, make fun," Cteve threw up his hands in resignation. "But I'm serious. I mean, I love the guy like a brother, but Bald John is not exactly a jolly-type of person."

"What are you getting at, C?" Fitz asked him. "Call, by the way."

The conversation paused while Fitz, Voluptuous and Peter – the only three players still in that hand – revealed their cards. A moment's deliberation later, Voluptuous' three pair of 8s was declared the winner. He collected the pot and added it to his pile.

"Anyway." Cteve gathered up the cards and began to shuffle the deck for the beginning of the next hand. "Didn't any of you notice how they've basically been grinning non-stop all week? It's like they're permanently laughing at a joke that no one else can hear."

"I do not think I understand why this is a bad thing," Voluptuous said in his usual soft tone. "Why should they not be happy? We won the match, Other John is playing again, and both of them scored today. They deserve to be happy after Other John's injury. It has been a hard summer for them, I think."

"Oh, yeah," Cteve sneered sarcastically, "poor OJ had to sit on the bench for four whole matches. When he's playing I do nothing but sit on the bench, so pardon me if my sympathy is limited."

The temperature in the room dropped a couple of degrees. "Don't be unkind, Cteve," Fitz said tersely.

Lee fidgeted uncomfortably with his cards. He loved Cteve; the two of them went way back. But the boy had a nasty streak in him. Competitiveness was in his blood, and he tended to get testy when he felt he was losing. Where the Johns were concerned, Cteve had been fighting a losing battle from day one. They were better strikers than he was – especially when they played together – and everyone knew it. Cteve knew it too, which was what made the whole thing worse.

He at least had the decency to look a little ashamed. "Sorry," he muttered.

Peter quickly steered the conversation out of choppy waters and into a discussion of the upcoming Gazette retrospective. It would be a whole issue covering the history of the Swoodilypoopers. They spent the following hour debating who deserved their own feature, and Cteve's comment was forgotten.

The rest of the evening passed with the usual level of good humour and slight debauchery. By the end of the night, Voluptuous had taken Cteve for everything he was worth, and Lee had won a grand total of five pounds. All in all, a successful evening.

It was past noon by the time Lee woke up. He lay unmoving for a few minutes before he could even summon the motivation to get out of bed. There was a dull throbbing in his head, but he'd had worse. This was par for the course, when it came to poker night. He shuffled down the hall towards the bathroom, pausing to poke his head into the main room. Light was streaming through the windows that covered the near wall, filling the expansive room. The poker table was strewn with abandoned cards, crisps, and cigar butts. There was even a five pound note on the floor that no one had claimed. Lee pocketed it into the waistband of his pants.

Both of his leather couches on the other side of the room were occupied. Cteve lay sprawled on one of them, snoring lightly. Fitz was on the other. He was sitting up at least, a cup of Lee's best coffee in one hand and a week-old copy of the Gazette open in his lap. He looked up and nodded at Lee in greeting.

"Morning," he said, tipping his mug in salute. Lee only grunted something halfway coherent and continued on to the bathroom at the back of his flat.

Fitz and Cteve had both been either too lazy (in Fitz's case) or too drunk (in Cteve's) to find their way home the night before. So Lee had of course offered up his couches. It was actually one of Lee's favourite things about poker night, having his friends spend the night. He loved his flat, but he didn't like living alone. It was too big a flat for just one person. He got lonely. So, he liked to have people stay over as often as possible. Fitz, in particular, tended to spend the night when he deemed it pertinent not to drive. He was the only Swoodilypooper who didn't live in Swindon itself, but in a cottage an hour's drive outside the town. When asked about it, Fitz explained that living in a cottage had always been a life-long ambition of his.

It was well into the afternoon before Fitz and Cteve left. The team had the day off, and none of them had anything important to get to. They lay around eating Lee's food, reading his magazines, and declining to help him clean up the poker table. Lee wouldn't have had it any other way. After a while they headed off to see about achieving something with their day. Lee thought that if they managed to get home, shower, and put on a load of laundry, that could be considered an achievement.

Lee wandered around his flat after they left. He cleaned up the living room, made a very late lunch, and then was so near to dying of boredom that he couldn't stand to be inside any longer. He tried to call Hannah to see if she wanted to take a break from working, but her phone was turned off. Or out of battery. Or it didn't have signal. Lee had no way of knowing which. The more he thought about Hannah, the more he felt bad that she was working so hard on a non-match day. The team didn't get weekends off, but non-match days when there were no practice were a rarity, and he felt they should be taking advantage of it.

Suddenly inspired, Lee spruced up, changed into clean clothes, and marched out the door. He would sweet-talk Hannah into taking a short break. Taking a minor detour, Lee stopped into their local corner store and picked up a bottle of Hannah's favourite wine – a sickeningly sweet white zinfandel that she swore tasted like strawberries and that Lee swore tasted like wine.

Nothing in Swindon was very far from anything else, so within minutes Lee was outside the offices of the Gazette. He let himself in the front door.

"Morning, Jenny," Lee greeted the receptionist with a smile. Jenny looked up and smiled back.

"Afternoon, Lee."

Lee hung a left to where he knew Hannah's office was. He hadn't been to the Gazette headquarters all that often, but he had a good memory for these things. He also had a good memory for names and faces. Being able to remember people was partly why he was so well liked in town. He knew the name of the Polish bloke who ran the corner store, he knew the names of all the pub staff in the giraffe, and he knew the name of the receptionist. Greeting her like an old friend was a part of the reason why she didn't ask what he was doing bringing a bottle of wine into the offices of a newspaper. 

"Lee?" Lee looked up at the sound of his own name and found Peter walking across the office towards him.

"Heya," Lee said, waving to his friend, "I was looking for Hannah."

"She's not here, mate. I think she's in the press box of the County Ground. She mentioned yesterday that she'd be working from there today. You know how she likes the view." Pete smiled.

For his part, Pete looked pretty good in the wake of their poker night. As he had been quick to point out last night, journalists still had to go to work on a Tuesday morning. Not all of us are free from the constraints of a 9-5.

"Cheers, Pete," Lee saluted him with the wine bottle and took off back downstairs.

When Lee approached the County Ground a few minutes later, it was to find a large yellow sign taped on the glass front doors of the stadium. The stark black letters of the sign read:

THE COUNTY GROUND IS CLOSED FOR FUMIGATION

Lee paused outside, studying the sign. Fumigation? That didn't sound right. Why would Hannah have told Peter she was working in the box all day if the stadium was closed? Maybe they were fumigating tomorrow and had put the sign up early? It was possible. At least convinced that they couldn't possibly be fumigating today, Lee lifted the piece of tape across the door and entered the lobby.

This was an entrance to the stadium that Lee rarely used; he preferred to enter through the player's locker room. Most of the fans would never even see this lobby – it was reserved for the press and the spectators who were wealthy enough to afford a box. The glass doors opened onto a richly carpeted lobby. There was a small bar on the left with glass countertops and sleek leather bar stools. A large flight of stairs opened up in front of him, leading up to the stadium boxes. The whole lobby felt to Lee more like a posh theatre than a football stadium, and the extravagance of it made him feel uncomfortable. Football matches weren't supposed to be classy; they were supposed to be loud and raucous. There were supposed to be over-priced cups of PG tips and barely edible pork pies. Attending a match in a box with champagne and chocolates was far too flashy for Lee's taste.

The flight of stairs on the right, Lee knew, would take him up to the press box. Taking the steps two at a time, he bounded up them towards Hannah's second home.

The door to the press box was ajar when Lee approached, but the lights were off. He pushed it open anyway, determined to check that Hannah wasn't hiding off in a corner. More than once Lee had awoken in the middle of the night to find her crouched at his poker table, working away. On those occasions she had been illuminated only by the glow of her computer backlight. Several times he had even come into her office to find her working in the dark. She seemed to prefer it that way.

"Han?" Lee glanced around the dark room.

The far side of the press box was a glass wall. During matches the wall opened out to better follow the action, but it was closed now. Pressed against the glass was a massive desk that Hannah and Peter shared. Normally, the desk was littered with a half-dozen different cameras, at least two laptops, and stacks of empty coffee cups. Not now though. The cleaner had evidently been in to tidy up the desk and hoover the carpet. No one had been in there since the last match, and there was certainly no sign of Hannah having been working there that evening. Lee was about to give up and try that hipster café she liked so much when something caught his eye. 

There was light filtering up from the pitch below. It was soft. Far too soft to be the industrial floodlight they used during evening matches. Lee inched towards the edge of the box, intrigued. Leaning over the desk, he looked down at the pitch below. What he saw was at once stunning and utterly perplexing. White fairy lights were wrapped around the posts and crossbar of the goals on each side of the pitch. Strings of lights were even weaved through the netting of the goals. Tea lights were scattered around the rest of the pitch, casting the whole field in a beautiful ghostly glow. At mid-field, a group of people was gathered. Three figures in particular were the clear focus of whatever was going on. Lee recognized them immediately, even from that distance.

The Johns were both wearing sleek black tuxedos. Their button-holes had matching red flowers tucked in them. OJ's hair was cleaned and tamed in a way that Lee had never seen before. And both of them were beaming with such dazzling smiles that Lee could see the whites of their teeth from his position on high. All in all, they both looked downright dashing. Those are some damn handsome men, right there.

They were facing each other across the line at centre-field, their hands were clasped together directly above the chalk line in the grass. Hannah stood behind the Johns, facing their joined hands. She was wearing a stunning gold dress that Lee had never seen before. Her hair was dancing around her shoulders in loose curls. She looked beautiful, but there was something else about her. Beyond the dress and the hair and the makeup, she was positively glowing with pleasure, as radiant as the fairy lights that illuminated the field. It was all he could do to look away from her and take in the rest of the scene.

Around the centre circle stood people that Lee did not immediately recognize. There was a woman with dark hair standing behind OJ. She wore a dress of matching golden colour to Hannah's, but the cut was different. She was also holding a bouquet of red flowers that looked to be the same ones pinned to the button-holes of the Johns' tuxedos. On the other side of the circle – Bald John's side – was a man. Lee squinted down at him for a moment before identifying him as Bald John's brother, Matt. The moustache was a tip-off. Matt was also wearing a tuxedo and smiling along with the rest of the party.

Finally, there was a slightly larger group of people standing off to the side. One of them, Lee noticed with a jolt of surprise, was Manager John. But there were five others that Lee was sure he had never seen before. Four of them looked older. They had their backs to Lee, so most of what he could see was greying hair. With the noticeable exception of a bald man. Lee could only assume that they were the Johns' parents. Standing next to the bald man was a much younger man. It was hard to tell from that distance, but he thought the other man might not even be fully grown – maybe a teenager? Or maybe he was just short. 

Having taken in everyone else, Lee's eyes immediately flicked back to Hannah. She was speaking, but he couldn't hear a word of her speech. It seemed to Lee that the event was centred distinctly on the Johns. When he looked back on it, he supposed he should have figured out what was happening much sooner. In any case, he stood watching them all in bemused fascination for a full minute before the reality of the situation finally sank in.

It can't be… There were only so many things a gathering such as this could be. But… It just didn't make sense. Lee watched the events unfold, but still couldn't wrap his mind around it.

Suddenly, something shifted down below. Other John took over speaking from Hannah, though Lee still couldn't hear a word. A few moments later, Bald John began to speak. Their hands, though still entwined, were moving now. Matt was handing something to Bald John. There was a flash of gold. Lee wasn't stupid. He knew what was happening. He could see it, but… it's not possible.

Hannah was speaking again now, her smile brighter than ever before. If Lee didn't know any better – and he was starting to think that maybe he didn't – he could have sworn she was crying. As though in slow motion, Lee realised what was about to happen moments before it did.

The Johns were kissing.

"Holy mother of –" Lee let out a slew of creative and colouful swears. None of them quite did the situation justice.

He was suddenly keenly aware that he was intruding on a private event. So private that they put up fumigation signs. He felt a wave of shame and embarrassment. It occurred to him for the first time that he did not want to be caught spying on the party down below. For lack of any better ideas, Lee ducked under the desk. Torn as he was between shock and guilt, he cursed to himself a few more times. He twisted open the bottle of wine still in his hands and took a few deep swigs. This was not remotely how he had envisioned the evening going.

Bald and Other John Green are gay. Bald and Other John Green are married. To each other. Because they're gay. Lee sat cross-legged on the floor of the press box, turning these ideas over and over in his mind. He'd lost track of how long he'd been sitting there, trying to understand. It had never occurred to him that there even were any gay footballers. Let alone that they were Swoodilypoopers, married, and two of his close friends.

How long have they been together? Did they get together before or after Other John's short-lived relationship with Hannah? Was that even true? There were a lot of questions, but Lee had no answers for any of them. Worse, he had no one to ask. Of all things, Lee knew for sure that if the Johns had wanted him to know, they would have told him. If they had wanted anyone else at their wedding, they would have been invited. They must have had their reasons for keeping it a secret.

His shock at the discovery was so strong that it drove out any other emotion for a while. Once the shock wore off, however, the only feeling Lee was left with was that of having been deceived. It was a sickening, gnawing feeling in his gut. His friends had just gotten married and Lee hadn't even known they were together. It hurt to have been so left out. And yet the more he thought about it, the more he began to understand their reasons for such tight-lipped secrecy. The gay thing, though irrelevant as far as Lee was concerned, was definitely an obstacle. He didn't know what would happen if the press got wind of a married gay couple playing professional football. He really had no idea, but he was willing to bet it would be a big deal. The invasion of privacy alone would have been enough to turn Lee against the idea of coming out if he had been in their position. The ramifications might be even greater than that. They could be ostracised from the sporting community. Fans, pundits and players alike could claim they weren't 'man enough' to play. The logic of it was ridiculous to Lee, when they clearly were man enough, but he could imagine it happening anyway.

It was a lot of information to process. At last, Lee came to a decision. The secret belonged to the Johns and the Johns alone. It was up to them to control the manner in which every single person in their lives learned this significant truth. If Lee had been able to do the day over again he would not have come looking for Hannah. This was not his secret to know, so he would keep it for them. With a pang of regret, he even decided not to tell Hannah about what he had learned. He did not think that the Johns would like to be the subject of their dinner table conversation. Friends or not, the Johns were private – intensely so. Lee could respect that. He would keep their secret, even from the Johns themselves. He would keep it because it didn't even belong to him in the first place. 

His legs were stiff from disuse when he finally pulled himself off the carpet. Creeping out of the box, Lee moved slowly down the hallway towards the stairs. He listened for the sounds of anyone still in the building, but found it silent and empty. Wherever the wedding party had gone, they weren't celebrating in the stadium bar. Well of course not, Lee realised, the bar is right in front of the glass doors. Anyone wandering up would see them. Lee felt suddenly sad for his friends. Those were the things they had needed to consider in planning their wedding.

The fumigation sign had been removed, Lee noticed, as he left through the front doors.

Lee went straight home. He collapsed onto his couch, turned on the TV, and paid very little attention to it for the next few hours. Lee liked television, though he never got particularly attached to any of it. It was the noise of it that he enjoyed. It filled his flat with a crime scene, or an emergency room, or a war. It made the room feel full and bustling, even when he was on his own.

Three hours later, he'd long since stopped following the plot of the doctor show marathon he was watching. He didn't have the attention span to follow a plot, and certainly not to follow an on-going story, but he liked having it on the in the background. The people in the imaginary hospital were yelling. They'd just saved someone's life. Or possibly killed someone. The loud buzzer to his flat door echoed suddenly through the large room. He pulled himself up and went to the phone mounted on the wall.

"Williamson residence," Lee half-sang into the receiver.

"Heya, it's me," came Hannah's gentle Scottish accent through the phone.

"Heya, it's you," Lee said with a smile. He immediately buzzed her up.

An odd mix of happiness and anxiety flooded him. On the one hand there was no one he wanted to see more than Hannah. On the other, he knew he would have to lie to her. Lee hated lying under normal circumstances, and this was certainly not a normal circumstance.

Despite his internal conflict, he could feel nothing but pleasure when Hannah opened his front door and stepped across the threshold. Her hair was tied back in a loose pony-tail now, but there was still evidence of it having been curled. Wavy locks had fallen out of the elastic band in places. It made her look wild and wonderful. The golden dress was also gone. She wore a simple pair of dark jeans and a loose knit sweater. If he hadn't known where she'd been that evening, he wouldn't have guessed. The only real clue was a spark in her eye that made Lee's heart expand pleasurably.

She half-skipped down the hall to where he was standing and tackled him in greeting. Her arms wrapped around his neck and pulled him down to her level. Without even letting him say a word of greeting, she kissed him with an abnormal amount of passion. Her lips were warm and soft and ever so inviting. Lee gripped her tightly and lifted her tiny form up to his height. She let out a small gasp of surprise when her feet left the floor, breaking their kiss.

Lee set her carefully back down. "Hello to you too," he said, laughing.

Hannah flushed. "Sorry. I just – happy five month anniversary."

"Happy five month anniversary to you too," Lee replied, kissing the top of her head. Her hair smelled like flowers.

They walked together back into the main room and collapsed onto the leather couch. Hannah lay down across two-thirds of it and rested her head on Lee's knee. She sighed contentedly.

"How was your day?" Lee asked. She's been working all day. She's been working all day. He repeated it to himself, hoping that if he thought it hard enough he would start to believe it.

Hannah looked up at him. "I don't have the words to express how wonderful my day has been."

There was a hard, uncomfortable lump in Lee's throat when he spoke again. "That's great," he said, "work went well then?"

"Yeah," she said. "I… I really love my job."

Lee laughed and reached down to stroke her hair. She closed her eyes and leaned into his touch. Now he was close up, Lee could see the additional makeup that still adorned her features. There was evidence everywhere that she hadn't been working all day, and Lee wished he couldn't see it. Of course he never would have if he hadn't already known the truth.

"Pete said you were looking for me," Hannah said suddenly, opening her eyes to look at him. Lee's hand stilled its movement through Hannah's hair.

"I was, yeah," he said after a moment's pause. There was a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach. "I got a bottle of wine. Thought I might convince you to take a break. Only you weren't in the office, so I thought maybe the press box at the CG. But when I got there… it was closed. Fumigation, apparently?"

"Yeah, I know," Hannah said. She wasn't looking at him anymore. "I ended up working at the Stone Pipe; you know that café you hate across from my office?"

"I don't hate it." Lee laughed, grateful for a different part of the conversation to latch on to. "It's just very hipster."

"Alright." Hannah smiled. "I'll admit it's  _a little_ hipster. I'm sorry I missed you, though."

"It sounds as though you had a great day, anyway," Lee said. They were dancing again with the topic he wanted to avoid.

Hannah looked back up at him. Her crisp blue eyes seemed brighter than usual. "I did," she said earnestly, "but it would have been nice to see you."

Lee understood. He wasn't always good at picking up on the subtleties of language and behaviour, but he understood this time. She wanted to tell him. She wanted to talk about the Johns, their marriage, and her role in it.

The words were on the tip of his tongue:  _you might not have seen me, but I saw you._  He wanted so much to tell her. But he couldn't.  _It's not my secret. I have no right to it. I can't force the Johns into trusting me with it, but I can keep it for them._

The moment passed and Lee said nothing. 

"What are you watching?" Hannah asked, turning towards the TV.

"I have no idea," he said truthfully. Leaning down, he kissed her again.

  

* * *

 

John felt dazed. He wanted to capture every moment and hold on to it, but even as he tried, he could feel each moment slip past him in a haze of swirling, expanding emotions. His heart was so full of love. Love for Bald John, and for everyone else who had gathered around the pitch to share in it. It swept him up, like a current he had no desire to fight. All that mattered was Bald John's tender gaze, and the warmth of his hands between John's.

Hannah was speaking again.

"By absolutely no power that was vested to me in any way, I now pronounce you married." Her laugh of joy was chocked with emotion.

John let out a breath and moved towards his husband. Husband. Standing directly above the centre-field line of the County Ground, they shared a soft, chaste kiss. Bald John trembled slightly under John's touch. Or maybe it was John's hand that was trembling. Applause and cheers rung across the pitch, echoing strangely in John's ears. He didn't want to move. Bald John, it seemed, had a similar thought: instead of pulling back, he surged forward and deepened their kiss. Somewhere behind them, John could hear Nate whooping. Finally, they broke apart and released one another. John looked again into Bald John's eyes. They were sparkling with unshed tears.

Matt walked over to them and clapped Bald John hard on the shoulder. Bald John turned around and embraced his brother. John could hear them murmuring to one another, but he couldn't make out any of the words exchanged. He could guess, though. A moment later, he felt Ashley's hand pressing softly on his forearm. Facing her, John saw with some surprise that she too had been crying. He grinned at her.

"You gone and gotten soft on me, Ash?"

"Shut up," she said, wiping her left eye with the pad of her thumb.

Without another word, they pulled each other into a tight, air-restricting, bone-crushing hug.

"I'm so happy for you." Her voice was partly muffled in his shoulder.

"Thanks," he said.

He meant more than that, of course. He meant to say that she was the only person who had been there for him throughout his adolescence. He meant to say that he didn't know who he would be without her. He meant to say that he loved her. But they didn't say that kind of thing to each other. There were too many years of baggage there. So they hugged instead.

When they parted, Ashley laughed and gently adjusted the red rose tucked in his buttonhole. It had been squashed from their hug, and was dangling at an odd angle. He didn't care.

John looked around and discovered that the rest of the party had gathered to wish them well. Bald John had moved on from Matt and was now folded in his father's arms. Richard, it seemed, had also shed a tear or two. For Bald John's sake, John was incredibly glad that Sheila, Richard, and Nate had all been able to come.

Without warning, Hannah was upon him. John stumbled from the force with which she threw her arms around him. Balancing himself against her, he hugged her back with enthusiastic abandon. She was laughing and crying all at once. John smiled into her hair. She told him she loved him and he said the same. Expressing his love was easier with Hannah. Their relationship – even when they hadn't been on the same page about its nature – had always been effortless. He loved her in a simple, uncomplicated way.

They released each other a moment later. John leaned down and kissed her cheek, thinking back to when they had first met. He would not have believed how close a friend she would become, or how much their meeting would impact him.

"Thanks for coming," he told her. "I'm really glad you're here."

"Please." Hannah dismissed his comment with a wave of her hand. "It's me who should be thankful. Thank you, so much, for letting me share this with you."

Next came Manager John. He pulled John into a warm one-armed hug. John hesitated for a split second before responding. It was not that he had a difficult relationship with his manager; it was just that he had never been sure about Manager John's feelings towards him. Certainly, they got on well, and John knew he was valued as a player. Even so, it was Bald John who had always held Manager John's affection, and it was Bald John who had invited him to the wedding. The two of them had a unique friendship based on shared cultural background, shared values, and something else. They were kindred spirits in a way that John could not share with his manager. He, the Other John, would always come second.

"I'm really glad for you boys," Manager John told him.

"Thank you, coach," John said.

"You never know. Maybe one day the rest of the team will get to congratulate you too."

Manager John was very keen for the rest of the team to find out. John supposed it was understandable from the perspective of a coach. Lies among team members probably weren't conducive to great working relationships. Manager John knew better than to insist that they tell anyone else, but he did sometimes like to lay in hints. On this occasion, John let it go. He was far too happy to pick a fight.

"You never know," he agreed. Manager John clapped him on the shoulder, and then moved on to also congratulate Bald John.

That left John to face his parents. They had both hung back a bit, watching him thank and accept congratulations from Ashley, Hannah, and Manager John. They moved forward tentatively now.

Anna Bennett smiled at her son. Her hair was tied up neatly, her makeup was flattering, and her dress was a beautiful floral pattern of white and blue. She looked wonderful, despite the wrinkles around her lips and eyes. As though in slow motion, she moved closer, reaching out to her son. It was the only invitation John needed. He filled the distance between them and wrapped his arms around his mother's slight frame. Her hug was loose and uncomfortable, but he appreciated it all the same.

"John Green seems like a really good man," she said at last, after he had released her.

"He is," John assured her.

She nodded, as though trying to think of something else to say. She was saved the effort when John's father stepped forward.

"Congratulations, Jonathan," he said. Whereas Ashley always used his full name in jest, Craig was using it for sincere formality.

Maybe John was being unfair, but their attitude towards the whole wedding had felt to him like they were approving a business deal. Like John had just purchased a car, or received a promotion at work. There was pleasure there, and some pride, but no emotional investment. John smiled at his father all the same and allowed himself to be drawn into another awkward hug. At least they were making an effort.

The wedding attendees left the stadium only a few minutes after the end of the ceremony. The Johns were hosting the reception at home, which mostly consisted of dragging their dining room table back out of the attic. Sheila insisted on cooking dinner for them all, despite Bald John's protestations that he was perfectly able to serve them himself. 

"Think of it as a wedding present, Johnny," Sheila told him. Her voice was at once stern and affectionate in that unique way that only a mother can pull off. Apparently it was unacceptable for her son to cook at his own wedding reception. Bald John eventually smiled at her and assented.

John was about to leave the stadium when he paused at the edge of the pitch. He looked out one last time at the adorned field. The tea lights were burning down and flickering in the evening breeze. The fairy lights woven through the goals had grown brighter as the sun had set behind the stands. It was a beautiful sight. John made a mental note to thank Hannah again for putting all of it together.

He felt rather than saw Bald John come up beside him. His hand slipped into John's, and they stood there for a moment, side by side. John felt he should say something profound or meaningful, but he had no words left. Instead, he rested his head on Bald John's shoulder, still taking in the pitch before them. It seemed that Bald John too was lost for words. He simply kissed the top of John's head.

Eventually, the air began to chill, causing Bald John to shiver. It was enough to burst their serene bubble. They turned to go, but pulled up short when they found Hannah standing a few feet behind them. She had one of her massive, expensive-looking cameras looped around her neck, and had evidently been taking their photo.

"How long have you been standing there?" John asked, bemused.

"Oh, you know… not long." Hannah grinned at him. The whole time, then, John thought. He didn't like being spied on, but he smiled at her all the same. I can make an exception. Just this once. Besides, some of those photos were bound to be quite good.

They signed the civil partnership registration forms at the house later that evening, to further applause, congratulations, and photo taking. Sheila served dinner, John played the piano, and all of them danced, sang, and drank their way into the evening.

John's parents, against all odds, ended up getting on reasonably well with the Greens. Better, certainly, than John had expected. They were inquisitive and kind. One might even have called them friendly. It was a much warmer side of them than John had ever encountered. When he commented on this to Ashley, she simply shrugged. 

"They aren't as bad as you make them out to be, you know." She leaned against his piano and put her glass of wine down on top of it. John frowned at her, but she ignored him. "When was the last time you even had an adult conversation with them?"

Before John could think of any reply, the flash of Hannah's camera temporarily blinded them both. In the subsequent request from Hannah to 'Smile!', the topic was lost. Still, Ashley's words stuck with John. When had he last engaged in a real conversation with his parents? Had he ever? John had moved away from home as soon as possible, and had never looked back. Maybe that was the crux of their problem, more than anything else. Maybe it was simply that John did not know his parents in the least. And, vice versa, they did not know him.

It was probably for this reason that they were the first to leave that evening. That, or the fact that they had a crippling dislike for social occasions. Either way, they made their excuses when the evening was still young. They were staying at one of the Travelodges on the outskirts of town and were hoping to make a quick getaway back to Liverpool early the following morning. John, spurred either by the wine he had been drinking, the love that had been flowing through him all day, or Ashley's light admonishment, insisted that they say a proper goodbye before leaving town the next morning. Craig hesitated. It was out of their way to come back into the centre of town. But John held firm, and eventually his parents agreed to come and say goodbye the following morning. Something about this was comforting to John. He didn't like the idea of their being in Swindon the following morning and John not getting a chance to see them. It was irrational, but it mattered to him for one reason or another.

Soon after his parents left, Manager John was the next to announce his departure. 

"Now I don't want to see either of you at practice tomorrow, is that clear?" Manager John said to both the Johns as they walked with him to the front door.

"Coach –" they began to protest in unison.

"Nope!" Manager John's voice rose sharply. There was a shrill edge to it that made both of the Johns smile. "I'll turn you away at the door if you try. You will not spend your first day as a married couple running suicide drills for Patrick, the mad Irishman. Clear?"

The boys hung their heads like reprimanded children. "Yes, coach," they said.

Giving them each one final hug, Manager John stepped out into the cool night air. "In fact…" he turned back around before he had even made it to the bottom of the front steps. "If you wanted to have the whole week off, I'm sure we could make do. You could go on a honeymoon, even. If you wanted."

The Johns looked at each other. This wasn't something that needed to be discussed. No. Not happening. No amount of marriage was worth missing a Swoodilypoopers match. 

"Thanks anyway, coach," Bald John said. "We'll see you on Thursday, though."

Manager John breathed an audible sigh of relief. "I'm glad to hear it. I really don't think we could have made do at all."

Hannah left a short while later. Something about a monthiversary with Leeroy. John didn't ask what that meant. She hugged every single member of the remaining party before taking her leave. Hannah, the socialite of Swindon, had managed to become fast friends with every member of Bald John's family. Not only that, but she and Ashley had already exchanged numbers and promised to be in touch. Really, John had come to expect no less from her.

Ashley hung around for another hour before she too had to leave for the long drive back to Liverpool. John was sorry to see her go, but he couldn't hold it against her. She had apparently run out of holiday days last month and needed to beg, borrow and steal just to get today off. So she'd rushed down that morning, and had promised to be back at work tomorrow.

Finally, Matt took the rest of the Greens to London with him. He claimed he wanted to give them a tour of his new cupboard-sized apartment. John suspected it was more that no one much fancied being a houseguest that evening. Richard shook John's hand warmly, and Sheila embraced him just as firmly as she did her own son. Nate gave him half-salute, and Matt made a point of inviting them down to London if they ever had some time off. 

Then everyone was gone. The Johns didn't bother tidying up. That was tomorrow's job.

The doorbell rang through the house so early in the morning that the Johns had not yet even left their bed. John was ripped unceremoniously from a rather pleasant dream, though the details were rapidly fading. He rolled lazily onto his back and glanced over at Bald John. Even Bald John, the consummate early-riser, was still curled into a tight ball on his side, his breath coming in deep sighs. The man slept so little, especially compared to John's rather liberal sleep patterns, that John couldn't bear to wake him. Gently, he slipped his arm out from under his husband – that'll take some getting used to – and crept out of bed. He pulled his housecoat off the hook on the back of the door and wrapped it around himself as he shuffled down the stairs. The comfort of the thick carpet was not enough to protect his toes from the cold October morning air. Shivering, John opened the door. A crisp autumn wind rose up to meet him. The frayed edges of the housecoat caught on the wind and flapped aggressively against John's ankles. He huddled over in a vain attempt to protect himself against the chill.

John was so distracted by the cold that it took him a moment to take in the figures at the door. Both of his parents were standing there. Calm, composed, and fully dressed, they made John feel like a child as he stood there shivering in his ancient wool housecoat.

"Mum, Dad," John said, clenching his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering. "What are you doing here? It's early, isn't it?" John had no idea what time it was, exactly. He'd forgotten to check the clock on the bedside table before going downstairs. But the light outside was still the cool grey of pre-dawn, and there was as yet no sign of the sun.

Craig Bennett looked impressive and intimidating in his expensive black overcoat and dress trousers. He made a show of checking his watch. "It's a long drive back to Liverpool and we'd both like to get some work done today. If we beat the traffic we should make it home by nine."

John, if he'd had his own way, wouldn't have left bed by nine that morning. But he wasn't his parents. He supposed he should at least be grateful that they'd thought to stop by and say goodbye.

"Do you have time to come in for a cup of tea or something?" John asked.

He wasn't sure what prompted this offer. He was still freezing and exhausted, and he wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep. Despite this, an instinct told him that he should at least invite them in. Well, it might have been an instinct. Or it might have been that John knew his new husband would disapprove if he had let them go without putting up any kind of argument. Never mind that John couldn't remember the last time he had had a real conversation with either of his parents.

His parents exchanged a look that John recognized as hesitancy. Immediately, John regretted asking. He didn't have a relationship with his parents, and he had no idea what made him think he could start now. John pulled at a loose thread in his housecoat, studiously avoiding the eyes of his parents.

"Sure," Craig said.

John looked up in surprise. "Really?"

His dad raised an eyebrow as though to say do you really expect me to justify that with an answer? "Great," John amended, "come on in, I'll put the kettle on!"

Where had this thrill of nerves and delight come from? Since when did John care whether or not his parents wanted to have a cup of tea with him? John had no answers to these questions, but he ushered his parents inside regardless.

"So…" John began, though he couldn't think of a sentence to follow. "Umm… take a seat." He waved in the direction of the kitchen table.

Craig and Anna both sat down. Keeping a peripheral eye on them, John began rummaging around the kitchen for some clean mugs. His hunt was unsuccessful. Giving up, he began washing some of them.

"You have a really lovely place," Anna said all of a sudden. John had barely been able to hear her over the running tap. Glancing over his shoulder, John saw that she had risen from the kitchen table and was admiring the back garden. The grass outside was glistening with dew, and the branches of the Japanese maple tree were swaying in the wind.

"Thanks," John said.

They had already spent most of the last two days at his house, but it seemed to John as though they were only now taking it in. Craig had remained sitting, but he looking around the kitchen with his keen, sharp eyes.

Silence reigned in the kitchen as John put on the kettle and prepared their tea. He was beginning to regret inviting them inside. He should have said a quick goodbye last night. His parents would be well on their way to Liverpool by now, John would still be asleep, and everyone would be happier for it. The left-over elation from his marriage, the cold, and the early hour had numbed John's judgment. Honestly, what had he been expecting? He didn't know his parents. He had nothing to say to them. Essentially, he may as well have invited a pair of socially awkward strangers into his home at six in the morning.

He set their mugs of tea down on the kitchen table, drawing Anna back to her seat. John pulled up a chair for himself and joined them.

"Aren't these the mugs we got you when you went away to the Junior League?"

Anna was twisting her wrist around in a circle to see the mug from all angles without spilling her drink. John looked down at his own. The paint had once been much brighter, but they were definitely the same ones. One of the mugs – the one Anna was inspecting – had a large Liverpool FC crest stamped on one side. The one Craig was sipping from was painted black and white in the pattern of a football. The third was the most simple. It was painted entirely red. Of the three, it was John's favourite. His parents had given it to him to represent the red of Liverpool. But red was also the Swindon Town colour.

"Yeah," John said. "I use them all the time. They're… they're great."

"I'm glad you got such use out of them." Anna took a small sip of her tea.

They lapsed back into an agonizingly awkward silence. _Why can't I think of a single interesting thing to say?_  

"How's work?" John asked his dad.

Craig looked up at him over his mug. "It's fine," he said. "We're working on some new administrative tasks that should mainstream our efficiency."

"Oh." John tried desperately to muster some enthusiasm. He failed. "That's… uh… great."

Their tea couldn't be drunk quickly enough. It only took fifteen minutes before Craig placed his mug down and stood up. Taking her cue from him, Anna did the same.

"Thank you for the tea. We really should be going."

"Right, yeah, of course." 

John walked them to the door, gave them fleeting hugs, and held the door for them as they left.

Closing the door behind them, John returned to the kitchen. He noticed with a hollow pang that both of them had barely touched their drinks. As he poured the tea down the sink, John wondered vaguely when he would next see them. Past experience suggested it would be at least a year. John sighed. File 'relationship with my parents' away on the list of things to feel vaguely bad about.

The Johns' first day as a married couple was remarkably uneventful. They did the dishes. Bald John went grocery shopping and watered the plants. John hoovered the carpet and put on a load of laundry. It was domestic.

By noon, the pair of them had abandoned their various jobs. They relaxed at the kitchen table and lunched on large bowls of Sheila Green's homemade sweetcorn chowder. She had filled their freezer with Tupperware containers of homemade food before she'd left. Bald John had rolled his eyes at the gesture, but John had loved it. It was certainly something his own mother would never have done.

The kitchen was filled with the sounds of their spoons clinking against the ceramic bowls. Sitting across from one another as they ate, John couldn't stop staring at their hands. Mirror imaged across the kitchen table were their matching gold rings. Of course they would need to take them off any time they left the house. In fact, the Johns would probably never be able to wear them again. But today – just for today – they let themselves enjoy the heavy weight on their hands and the warm pressure encasing their fingers.

John glanced up at the clock. It was nearly one in the afternoon; they should have been at the stadium by now. It felt weird to be at home when there was a practice to go to. Still, one day wouldn't kill them. And there was one last thing that John wanted to do before they returned to the Swoodilypoopers.

"I want us to be a family," he said, a little too loudly in the quiet kitchen. He put down his soupspoon and reached out with his left hand for Bald John's. Their wedding rings clinked against each other when they laced their fingers together.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I want to take your name," John explained calmly.

Bald John was silent for a few moments. John had come to expect and enjoy these odd beats in their conversations when Bald John was considering something.

"Are you sure?" he eventually asked. "There's a lot to consider about this. For one, I don't want you to forever feel like the 'Other'. I don't want you to feel like you're defined in relation to me. Plus, you're already beginning to gain some notice in the footballing community. Changing your name might jeopardize that if the pundits start getting us confused. Not to mention how we explain it to the team. It's not just a simple matter of our becoming a family."

"It is," John replied, utterly undaunted by Bald John's concerns. "It is exactly as simple as our becoming a family. I would be honoured to become a Green. Everything else is immaterial."

Bald John looked at him. "Immaterial?" he repeated, clearly unconvinced.

"Absolutely. The timing is great, actually. It's still early in the season. If I'm going to start earning a name myself, I want it to be ours. We come as a pair, anyway, so why not make it official?" John paused, something else occurring to him. "I mean, only if you want me to take your name."

A smile tugged at Bald John's lips. "I'd like that. Very much."

John hoisted himself onto his elbows in order to land a kiss on Bald John's lips. "Sorted," he said, dropping back into his chair. "Just call me John Green. Only, you know, the other one."

"Not quite sorted," Bald John countered. "How do we explain it to the team?"

The team. John hadn't thought much about what the team would think. "Well, I think the team already thinks of me as a Green anyway, to be honest," he said. John wasn't sure how much that was true, but he wasn't too concerned about it.

Swoodilypoopers were nothing if not eccentric. It would be in keeping with their intense love of nicknames for Other John to change his name to Green. Why not go all the way? Make his status as 'the other one' official. "I really think we'd be able to get away with playing it like a big joke. Especially with Manager John having our backs, I think it'll be fine."

Bald John still looked unconvinced. Clearly, he was looking to argue the point further. Of course John understood his arguments. He understood that changing his name could affect their careers in a number of unpredictable ways. Perhaps most importantly, it could draw unwanted attention to their situation. Why would someone take the name of their friend and colleague? It was unusual to say the least. All of this, John understood. There were a lot of reasons to not do this. None of it mattered.

"John –" Bald John began.

"No," John said, pre-empting all of the arguments that he knew Bald John would put forward. His voice was gentle but firm as he continued. "I don't want to hear it. There are some things… there are some things that are too important. Changing my name? It might seem like a luxury we can't afford, but it's important. I want to do this. For us and for the family I want us to build. It's normal. And sometimes, John, despite all the insanity in our lives, we have to let ourselves do normal things."

The look on Bald John's face shifted. The love in his eyes was enough to tell John that he'd won.

"Well then." Bald John leaned forward across the table towards him. His tone had changed. It was lighter now, and much more relaxed. "I guess I'll have to stop calling you Bennett, Bennett."

Remarkably, the team barely commented on John's change of name. Perhaps they were all exactly eccentric enough to believe that John would change his name for the simple sake of playing up his nickname. More likely, it was Manager John who so seamlessly eased in the change. Apparently it had been as simple as tacking on 'Green' to John's pre-existing nickname and pretending that this had been true all along.

Manager John marched into the locker room that Thursday morning. He took one look at John and flashed him his trademark lunatic grin.

In a loud voice, he called across the locker room, "don't know why it says Bennett on the back of your jersey, when we all know your name is Green."

John initially assumed that people would think it was weird, or at least comment on the change. He had been wrong. Most of them, it turned out, didn't even blink. Cteve looked up briefly from lacing up his left cleat. He frowned, looked over at John, shrugged, and returned to his laces. A few others seemed mildly perplexed, but said nothing. Maybe they didn't want to risk saying something and discovering that John Bennett had been called John Green all along.

John wasn't sure whether to be relieved or insulted that the team showed so little interest in the change. He wanted to ask his teammates about it, but he couldn't think how. Nothing short of 'hey, don't you think it's strange that I just upped and changed my name?' would get him the answer he was looking for. Unfortunately, a question like that might be a little conspicuous.

Of all people, it was Lee who seemed the most intrigued by this. He smiled a close-lipped, private smile. Even then, it was only for a moment. John probably wouldn't have noticed at all if Lee hadn't been standing directly in his eye line.

All in all, their match against Milton Keynes Dons was disappointing. Despite winning with a comfortable margin, and despite the fact that it was only their sixth match of the season, and despite the fact that John was playing only his second match since recovering from his injury – despite all of these things, the match had been disappointing. 

The Johns had dominated the game. It had felt by moments as though they were the only two players on the pitch. Yet they had been incapable of netting more than three goals between them. Normally, a three-nil victory was nothing to be ashamed of. Not this time. Manager John paced around the locker room huffing loudly about all their missed opportunities. He seemed to be under the impression that they had just played the worst match of their lives.

 _It's ironic,_  John thought as the team stripped and showered,  _that in our first match as a married couple Bald John and I were so out of sync._ A glance over at Bald John's wry expression said he was thinking the same thing. They smiled surreptitiously at each other and headed off to the showers side-by-side.  _Manager John can take it out on us at tomorrow's practice. For now, a win's a win._  

* * *


	4. The End of an Era

"You've got to be joking," Bald John growled, in a demonstration of agitation that even John had rarely seen from him. He folded his arms across his chest, scowling defiantly.

"I am not joking," Manager John assured him.

"Coach you can't –" Bald John began to protest.

"Bald John! I've already explained this to you. Twice. I've learned my lesson from your husband here." Manager John waved vaguely in John's direction. In response, John tried very hard to melt into the wall.

He glanced longingly at the closed door of Manager John's office. The rest of the team was outside in the locker room getting changed for the match. John desperately wished he was out there with them and not participating in this very uncomfortable meeting.

"If I want to keep the two of you in top condition," Manager John continued, "you both need to rest every once in a while."

"Why don't you rest John, then?" Bald John said. John looked up sharply at this. "He is the one who got injured, after all."

"Hey!" John squawked indignantly, forgetting that he was pretending to not be in the room.

Bald John glanced at him, meeting his eyes for a moment. His features briefly softened in apology, but it didn't seem particularly sincere. All's fair in love and football, apparently.

"This goes for Other John too. But right now it's your turn," Manager John said firmly. He clearly wouldn't be moved by any of Bald John's protestations.

"It's only Leyton Orient," John piped in softly. He didn't move from his position against the wall. "I'm sure Cteve's up to it."

Bald John sighed. John had trapped him and he knew it. He could not suggest that he didn't have faith in a teammate's ability, and he could not try to argue that he was the only player who could win the match for them. So he was stuck, forced to take a rest on the bench for the whole match.

"You're right," Bald John said after a moment, unable to hide the dejection from his voice. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat. "I'm sure you and Cteve will do just fine."

"Lovely!" Manager John clapped his hands together jovially. "Glad that's sorted. OJ and Cteve will start today's match. Bald John, you'll rest. Then, next time I tell you to take a rest, you'll take the damn rest without us needing to discuss it for ten minutes. Agreed?"

Bald John blushed with chagrin and looked down at his own feet. "Yes, coach."

"Wonderful!"

It was remarkable to John how their manager could reprimand his players with such unreserved cheer.

* * *

No one doubted that they could win their match against Leyton Orient. Still, not a one of them expected to win by the margin they did.

Five goals in, Leyton Orient stopped fighting back. They still ran, they still tackled, but John could feel that the fire had left them. They had no hope of regaining the ground they needed; rather than waste the energy, they went through the motions of playing a match. It made the following four goals feel hollow, like they hadn't been earned. Even so, John was not the type to complain about such a resounding victory. He hugged Cteve around the shoulders when the final whistle blew.

"Well done, my Stone Cold friend!" John said, ruffling his hair with one hand. Somewhere along the line, John had stopped worrying about physical contact with his teammates. It felt liberating.

Cteve was beaming with pride as they made their way off the pitch. John was glad for him – he knew it must be tough to constantly have to prove himself against the Johns. For his part, John would always prefer to play with his namesake, but Cteve had earned every accolade he received that match.

Patrick and Manager John were standing side by side at the edge of the pitch as they approached. Patrick's usual prickly demeanour had melted into slack-jawed, glassy-eyed amazement. While the team filed back into the locker room, John caught his eye.

"Alright, Patty?" he asked, clapping his assistant coach on the back as he walked past.

Patrick shook his head vigorously as though trying to dislodge something.

* * *

Their season in League One passed as quickly as a dream.

They didn't strike gold again the way they had against Leyton Orient, but they won most of their games and drew the rest. They maintained a solid standing in the league table, and had every reason to be optimistic about their chances of moving up to the Championship. Months passed. The autumn air chilled and the ground hardened with frost. Mud on the pitch solidified and cracked to form treacherous divots in the earth. Morning dew froze on the grass and turned the pitch into a patchy skating rink. The boys skidded during their sprints and lost possession with alarming frequency, but still they played on into the winter.

When John would look back on their season in League One, there were only a few memories that stood out against a whirlwind of endless practices and matches. Their Christmas dinner was one such memory.

* * *

The Johns decided to host the Christmas party for the whole team that year. For one, they were quite keen to move past their previously disastrous attempt to play host. For another, their Christmas dinner from the year before held a certain significance for the two of them, and they wanted to honour it in their own understated way. 

Everyone had made it, from Manager John to Bodin Bodin. Even Hannah, Peter, and Liz had found the time to join them. Drinks, dinner, drinks, dessert, drinks, and after-dinner coffee all went off without a hitch. By ten that night, the whole house was teeming with Swoodilypoopers in various states of inebriation. Ramsden, Beef Stock, Bolzone, Picard Smith, and some of the other boys had begun a game of truth or dare in the kitchen. Thankfully, Bald John had remembered to hide anything breakable. The occasional shouts of laughter or roar of approval could be heard from the kitchen.

Cteve, meanwhile, had taken it upon himself to invite some of his lady friends and was touring them around the Johns' home as though he lived there. At some point in the evening Cteve had disappeared upstairs with one of them. John tried not to think about how long they had been up there.

John lay back on the living room couch, propping his head up against the pillow of the backrest. He listened to the bustling noise and laughter of his friend and smiled a warm, contented smile to himself. John caught Hannah's eye and grinned at her. She grinned back at him from her position at his piano. The gentle tune of the melody to Heart and Soul emanated softly from the piano, barely audible over the dance music blasting from the kitchen. One of Hannah's bare feet was tucked up on the piano stool and she was tinkling away with broken, poorly paced one-handed playing. The tune paused and restarted again as it suited her. She would play a bar, pause to sip the mulled wine resting on top of the piano, and resume playing another couple of bars.

There was only so much John could take of that infernal song. "Heart and Soul, Han? Christmas songs would be better, and that's saying something."

"You're such a snob," Hannah commented mildly, continuing to play.

"I am not a snob," John protested. "I'm just… discerning."

Hannah paused and pointedly raised an eyebrow at him.

"Alright, fine. Shut up," John said quickly. He took a long sip of wine.

Hannah laughed and resumed playing. With a long-suffering sigh, John rose from his position on the couch.

"Budge up." He poked her knee with one finger. Hannah let her foot slip back down to the floor and shuffled toward the higher end of the piano. "If you insist on torturing me, we may as well play it properly."

They began to play the horrendous song together. Dimly, John heard the ringing of a phone over the sound of the piano.

"Baldy!" Cuthbert called across the bustling living room. "Your phone's ringing, mate!"

Bald John looked up from his conversation with Lee, Fitz, Liz, and Manager John. He tried to get up, but was trapped against the far wall by the dining table. "Who is it?" he called to Cuthbert.

"Dunno," Cuthbert called back, inspecting the face of Bald John's phone. "Call ID just says a number."

"Isn't everyone you know already here?" Liz laughed.

The phone was still ringing. "Answer it, Cuthbert," Bald John urged.

"Hellooooo!" Cuthbert half-yelled into the phone. "Johns Green residence." There was a pause when whoever was on the line spoke to Cuthbert. "Which one?" Cuthbert asked. "I'm afraid you'll need to be more specific, my good man. This house is positively overrun with John Greens."

Another pause.

"Well," Cuthbert continued, "would you like the bald one, the boss man, or the… uh… other... one?"

The team laughed raucously. John continued playing with Hannah, only half-listening to Cuthbert's antics.

"I see," Cuthbert said at last. "Hold on one second, please mate." He looked up and shouted back to Bald John across the room. "Baldy, there's some bloke says he's your brother on the phone. Sounds a bit miffed, actually. I don't think I like him."

"Give it here, Sir." Bald John extended his hand. "I'm meeting my brother tomorrow in London, he's probably forgotten what time."

Bald John's phone passed across a half-dozen members of the team, moving from one to the next like a game of pass the parcel. Eventually it arrived in Bald John's hand at the other end of the room.

"Hey, Matty," Bald John said upon lifting the phone to his ear. John, who was still tinkling away at his duet with Hannah, hadn't been looking at Bald John. He didn't see the colour rush from Bald John's face or the way he stood abruptly from the dinning room table, his back rigid. He did, however, hear Bald John's next words: "…Myles. Sorry, I just assumed…"

The piano crashed dissonantly when John's hand slipped in surprise. The shock and pain in Bald John's voice was unmistakable. By the time John found his husband's face in the crowded living room, the man was already moving quickly out of the living room. A moment later, John heard the telltale sounds of the front door being opened and closed again. Absurdly, John worried that he hadn't put on a coat. It was freezing outside.

The rest of the party returned to pouring drinks and swapping jibes at one another. John could breathe easier for it – at least this time the Johns' personal dramas weren't the centre of attention. Just because John had spent the last year and a half learning every inch of Bald John's personality, didn't mean everyone else could see past his stoic exterior. To them, there had apparently been nothing unusual about Bald John's phone call.

John's hand slipped off the piano, but he didn't move. What could he do? Intruding on Bald John's phone call was utterly out of the question, but so was doing anything else while Bald John was outside talking to his estranged brother for the first time in months. Hannah looked over at John, her eyes sharp. She didn't know much about Bald John's relationship with Myles, but she knew enough.

"Why is he calling?" she asked in a hushed whisper to John.

John shrugged weakly. "I have no idea."

Hannah looked like she wanted to ask more, but they were interrupted by Leeroy, who had wandered over to join them. Standing behind Hannah, he wrapped his arms loosely around her shoulders.

"What's up with Bald John, OJ? He looked not quite okay, but I thought he and his family got on really well," Lee said.

"They do, for the most part," John said numbly. His mind was outside with his husband. "It's… complicated." 

John liked Lee a lot, but he suddenly felt uncomfortable talking about Bald John's family without him being there. It felt too much like gossiping. Never mind that if Lee were to ask why Bald John and Myles didn't get on, it would lead them directly into sketchy territory.

Lee, however, seemed able to take the hint. He just nodded. "Family, huh? They can be a tricky bunch." 

"Yeah." On that point, John could definitely agree. Tricky only began to cover it. "I think I might get another drink. Can I get you two anything?"

"No thanks," Hannah said. 

Her eyes were still boring into his, desperate to continue talking about this sudden development. Their conversation would have to wait, though. John excused himself and got up from the piano stool. He slowly made his way across the room, but was prevented from entering the kitchen by Manager John.

"Is Bald John okay?" he asked. Like Hannah, Manager John knew a bit about the situation with Myles. Certainly, he knew enough to be worried. But again, as with Hannah, John was reluctant to talk about it.

"I'm sure he's fine," John said tersely.

He didn't mean to be rude, especially as Manager John was clearly just concerned, but he pushed past his coach all the same.

The noise in the kitchen was considerable. Music was blaring so loudly from John's speakers that he wouldn't be surprised if they never worked properly again. Every inch of counter space was awash with spilled alcohol, empty bottles, and leftovers. The Johns had spent the entire day yesterday and most of that morning preparing enough food to feed a small army. They needn't have worried about overdoing it. Scraps of turkey stuffing and roast potatoes littered the kitchen counters, but the rest had been consumed.

It was only upon entering the kitchen and opening a fresh can of beer that John remembered he really didn't want another drink. He had just wanted something to do, but it had been insufficient in distracting him from his concern for Bald John.

He stayed in the kitchen for a few minutes, leaning against the counter and sipping at his drink. Eventually, he couldn't take it anymore. His curiosity was too great. Slamming his beer back down on the counter, John began marching towards the door. Just as he entered the front hall, the door was pushed open from the other side. Bald John stepped inside hurriedly, shivering from the cold.

John instinctively reached out to warm his husband's hands with his own, but pulled back at the last moment, remembering that they had guests. Bald John met his eyes, but his expression was inscrutable.

"What… um… how did… are you okay?" John stuttered.

He wanted to know what their conversation had been about. His whole body was aching with curiosity. He knew better than to beg for information, though. Bald John would share everything with him when he was ready, but only if John was patient enough to wait until that time.

"I'm fine," Bald John said. He was clearly still processing his conversation with his brother; his eyes were glazed over in thought.

"Do you want to talk about it?" John asked.

Bald John paused in his usual way. "There's not really anything to… um… to talk about, really," he said at last, his voice more bewildered than shaken. "He called to congratulate us."

That was the last thing John had expected. "He… to congratulate us? But… why?"

Bald John laughed at this, a teasing smile playing on his lips. "Why do you think? About the…" he looked around the hallway. Ginger Rampage and one of the girls Cteve had brought were leaning against the wall in conversation a few feet away. "The thing…" Bald John finished quietly, vaguely indicating his left ring finger. It was empty of any jewellery now, but the message was clear.

"Well sure," John replied, "I assumed you meant about the thing. I meant why did he call? He's a few months behind the times." 

Their hushed conversation was halted by the sounds of crashing from the living room, followed by a tumult of laughter and applause. If John were to guess, someone had just broken one of their wine glasses. He sighed.

"We can't talk here," Bald John said. "Upstairs?"

John nodded, and together they began pushing their way past their friends towards the stairs. They walked in silence toward Bald John's room, but John pulled up short when they heard voices on the other side of the door. Undaunted, Bald John walked in. Cteve was stretched out on the bed with one of the women he’d invited to the party. Her top lay discarded on the carpet along with Cteve's. Thankfully, they were both still clothed from the waist down. The girl, a curvy blonde that John had never seen before, shrieked at the sight of them. She sat up and covered her bra-clad torso with one of Bald John's pillows.

"Evening, Cteve," Bald John said with biting politeness. "Kindly vacate my room." It was a command, not a request.

Cteve, not the type to be embarrassed, bounded up from the bed with a crooked grin. "Sorry, mate, is this your room? I thought it was OJ's." He stuck his thumbs in the waistband of his jeans, and casually looked around the room.

It seemed to John that whose room it was hardly mattered, but he asked anyway: "Why would you think that?"

"Well, for one, isn't that your sweater, OJ?" Cteve sauntered over to Bald John's closet and picked up one of John's old Liverpool sweatshirts off the hook on the closet door. He held it up to show off the Liverpool FC logo on the front.

"Err… yeah. I guess it got mixed up in our laundry." John said. He could feel an embarrassed blush heating his cheeks.

Bald John fared much better. His voice was cool and collected when he spoke. "Cteve, John's sweater is hardly the issue. Could you and your –" He glanced at the woman on the bed with a hint of disdain "– guest, please get dressed and go back downstairs? This is not a frat party."

Even John thought he was being a bit harsh, though he also recognized the signs of a misdirection when he heard one. If Bald John got angry with Cteve for being in his room, then perhaps Cteve would forget to be curious about the presence of John's sweater. This appeared to be successful. Cteve reached out his hand to the woman on Bald John's bed.

"Come on, Chloe. We'll finish exploring the house." Chloe dropped Bald John's pillow, hurriedly shuffled back into her top, and kept her eyes trained on the floor as she and Cteve exited the room. Bald John closed the door behind them with a shade more force than was necessary.

"John…" John reached out to his husband and ran a reassuring hand down his back. He felt some of the tension leave Bald John's shoulders.

"I know," Bald John said softly. "That was unkind, what I said to Cteve's girl. It's not like I don't know what he's like."

"It's okay," John said. His hands continued to roam up and down Bald John's back. "What happened with Myles?"

"Nothing, really." Bald John moved over to the bed and collapsed down onto it. He leaned his head against the headboard and closed his eyes. John tried not to notice the wrinkles of exhaustion around his husband's eyes. "He just wanted to congratulate us," Bald John continued, his eyes still closed. "He said he was sorry for not calling sooner, and that he wanted to wish us luck." 

This news should have been greeted with pleasure, but Bald John just seemed sad. John sat down beside him on the bed. 

"That's good, isn't it?" he asked, taking one of John's hands into his.

Bald John opened his eyes. "Yeah," he agreed. He tried to smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "It is. It's just… his son was born last night. My nephew. His name is James… Myles said his birth got him thinking about family. He said that despite everything, we would always be brothers. He said that he didn't want to be a hypocrite when he taught his son about the importance of family."

"That's great, isn't it?" John pressed. He hadn't heard the conversation, and he knew little about Myles as a person, but he was convinced that any moves towards a reconciliation should be greeted with optimism. He couldn't understand why Bald John was upset.

"It is," Bald John agreed. "It's great, really. It's just… I completely forgot. I forgot that Jenny was even pregnant. I haven't been around at all. I don't… John, I can’t be that kind of uncle to him!"

John stepped closer, wrapping both arms firmly around his husband’s waist. "Well, you can only take it one step at a time, right?” he suggested gently. “And Myles getting back in touch is a pretty good step."

Finally, a real smile broke through, and the lines that had aged Bald John's face fell away again. "Yes," he agreed. "It is."

Anything else they might have said was interrupted by Hannah bursting through the door. "You boys might want to come downstairs. Cuthbert may or may not have accidentally started a small fire in the kitchen."

* * *

Following their party, Christmas itself came and went in a flurry of practices and matches. They managed to make time to see both Ashley and Matt at various points, but more than anything else, they lived on the field of the County Ground that winter.

John could not have said how it happened, but they just kept winning. It was unlikely to the point of unprecedented, but they flattened every team that came to battle them. It wasn't as though the battle was easy. They fought hard, and the challenges of a higher league were not lost of them. Still, they prevailed with a measure of success that took them all by surprise. The more they won, the more the team was motivated to hold on to their streak. They were all sure their luck couldn't prevail, and yet it seemed to. They won match after match, and more and more journalists began showing up to their post-match press releases. What used to be a half-empty room with Peter, Hannah, and one of the Gazette interns, had filled with reporters from football magazines and local newspapers across Staffordshire and the Midlands.

With regards to their efforts in the FA Cup, none of them could quite wrap their heads around it. They won their first round match against a non-league side without breaking a sweat. Then they won their second round. And their third. And their fourth.

Before they knew it, the winter had warmed, spring had returned to Swindon, and with it the final matches of the season were once again upon them. There remained only six matches leading up to the end of their season in League One, and only two matches left to determine the winner of the FA Cup.

Swindon Town had not won the FA cup in the history of the club, but that March they found themselves gearing up for their semi-final match against Premier league side Wigan Athletic. Their unexpected and downright unprecedented success in the FA Cup had done something to Manager John. His fervour reached new heights. Their practices went later into the night and began earlier in the morning. They trained every day. They ran half marathons; they watched hours of filmed matches. They had tactics meetings that lasted into the early hours of the morning. They strategized, they prepared plays, and they ran scenario after scenario. Somewhere along the line their unlikely winning streak had lead to a real and unshakable belief that they could win, really _win_ , the FA Cup.

* * *

One rainy afternoon in early March, following their 4-1 victory against Notts County, Manager John held them back in the locker room. Still dripping from the rain and shivering in their damp uniforms, he sat them all down and began pacing in front of them.

"Boys." He stopped pacing and faced his players like a teacher to a class of primary students. "As you all know, our next match is the FA Cup semi-final against Wigan Athletic. This match, and the final after it, will be the two most demanding matches our team has ever played. You will need to be at your sharpest. Your strength must be full; your reflexes must be flawless. I need every one of you to be in peak physical condition. Understood?"

The team nodded in agreement. "Yes, coach," they chorused.

"Excellent!" Manager John smiled, but it wasn't his usual grin. John didn't like the look of this smile. It reminded him of when he had told Bald John off for complaining about being benched. It was a punishing smile. "In that case," he continued, "you will all understand why, from today, I am instigating a drinking ban."

There were a few moans of complaint, but no one raised much of a fuss. Drinking bans were pretty common when the stakes were this high.

"Great," Manager John said. "Glad everyone's okay with that. Well… that should be everything. Just one last thing, not a big deal, nothing to worry about…" Manager John's voice fell in volume and he began to mumble so badly that the whole team leaned forward to catch his final words, "…but I'm also instigating a celibacy order."

The tumult in response to that was so great that Manager John immediately lost control of the room.

"What!"

"Coach!"

"You can't be serious!"

"That's inhumane!"

"I will not have you wasting energy on distractions. It's only until the end of the season!" Manager John had to shout to be heard over the roars of the team. 

"That's two months from now!" Cteve shouted back.

"Yes," Manager John agreed. "Consider it a lesson in discipline."

Lee leaned over to where the Johns were sitting. "This must be some kind of cruel joke," he said to them.

John laughed. "I doubt it, Lee. This is Manager John we're talking about after all."

"Alright," Manager John yelled over the ongoing complaints of the team. "That's it for today. Go home, drink a nice cup of cocoa and go to bed alone. See you bright and early tomorrow morning!"

"Yes, coach," the team muttered grudgingly.

John shouldn't have been surprised, really. They were beginning to discover that Manager John's madness knew no limits when there was a cup at stake. Bald John met his eyes as they changed out of their kit. John chuckled when he noticed Bald John's eyes roaming across his bare torso. Best get a good look now. Of course they would obey the celibacy order. John had no doubt that some of the team wouldn't, but there was nothing the Johns weren't prepared to sacrifice for the success of their team. Even so, they didn't have to like it.

They showered slowly, and ended up two of the last people to leave the stadium that afternoon. Manager John poked his head out of his office as they were on their way out the door.

"See you tomorrow, boys," he called to them.

Bald John turned back around to smile ruefully at their coach. "A sex ban, coach? Isn't that a tad extreme?"

"There's no such thing where the FA cup is involved," Manager John said firmly.

"Of course," Bald John said. He nodded his head deferentially before turning again to leave.

"Just consider it an extra incentive," Manager John said, calling them back again. His familiar mischievous grin had returned.

"What do you mean?" John asked. 

Manager John was grinning again. "Well, I guess this means you're really going to want those post-goal hugs, aren't you?"

* * *

Their match against Wigan Athletic was a punishing and exhausting uphill struggle.

Nervous energy tingled through John's veins as they stepped out of the tunnel and shook hands with the Wigan Athletic players and their referees for the day. John hopped lightly on the spot while he took his position and waited for the whistle to begin play. He had never been more nervous for a match. Never mind the millions of pounds that hung in the balance, or the huge crowd in the Wigan stadium. They had something far more important on the line that day: their pride. As a team they had worked harder than ever before to prepare for this match. They were ready, John was sure of it.

From the first moment of the match, the Swoodilypoopers had control of the ball, but their control didn't last. They ran their plays just as they had practiced, but the Wigan team was better than they had anticipated. Every time John tried to make a pass, one of their defenders was there, blocking his access to Bald John. They cleared the ball out of the Wigan side with clean precision each time. It was abundantly clear to them within minutes that they were desperately out of their league. They pushed and pulled up and down midfield, but neither of the Johns could find the opening they needed to finish their attack. Worse still, Fat Lucas was forced to make several tight saves to keep them even at nil-nil.

Half-time in the locker room was a quiet, tense break. No one made much eye contact as they sat on the floor or benches and tried to catch their breath.

"Here's the reality, boys," Manager John said calmly to them. "When you're playing a team like Wigan Athletic… we're just getting… they're a lot faster than us. I won't lie to you, boys, the fact of the matter is that they're a better team. We do not have the pure speed or strength that they do. But let me tell you something: we have something they don't have. Do you know what that is?"

"I can take a guess," Ginger Rampage muttered under his breath to Beef Stock.

Manager John paused at this, having clearly heard him. "Go on, Ginger, don't let my rallying speech get in your way. Take a guess."

Ginger blushed at having been called out, but spoke up all the same. "Heart, coach?"

Manager John cracked a grin. "Well I was going to say moustaches, but sure, heart works too." The team laughed, and some of their energy returned.

But energy wasn't enough. Their formation was poor out of the gate at the beginning of the second half, and they couldn't recover. By the 53rd minute Wigan Athletic made it past the Swoodilypooper defences to land a neat goal in the bottom corner of the net. Rather than hang their heads in shame, the Johns rallied. They pushed harder, they ran faster, and they were finally able to make the plays they had spent so much time practicing. Ten minutes after giving up a goal, John found his moment. After 60 minutes of trying, he made the pass he had been attempting to make all afternoon. The ball landed beautifully at Bald John's feet, and he had an open run to the goal.

John watched, as though in slow motion, as Bald John made his run into the box. It was just Bald John and the keeper. He could do it; John had no doubt. Bald John's strike soared high over the shoulder of the keeper to bury itself in the top of the net. We're back in this. We can still win. We can still make it to the FA Cup final. The Johns collapsed into each other's arms in relief. His warmth and the strength of his arms around John's back filled his heart with warmth. He cupped one hand tenderly around the back of Bald John's neck.

"Good shot," John murmured into his ear.

"No celebrating just yet. The match isn't over till we win," Bald John replied.

"Always so jovial, you," John joked.

Bald John pulled back, laughing. Fighting the urge to kiss him then and there, John gave him wink as they resumed their positions on the pitch.

The rest of the match passed in a blur of failed shots and narrow saves. By the 90-minute whistle, every single player on the pitch – Swoodilypoopers and Latics alike – was ready to faint from exhaustion.

When John entered the locker room for the break before extra time, he allowed his knees to buckle underneath him. He fell unceremoniously to the floor, where he lay on his back, staring up at the concrete ceiling. Without a word, Bald John collapsed down beside him. Every bone in John's body was aching. He wanted to sleep for a whole day. At the very least he wanted to lie there for a few hours.

But he couldn't. The fun wasn't over yet.

"Extra time, OJ!" Fat Lucas sat down heavily beside him. "You up for it, mate?"

John pushed himself up onto his elbows. "I am if you are," he replied.

"Oh, me?" Fat Lucas smiled, though the fatigue didn't leave his eyes. "No need to worry about me, boyo. I could do this all day." 

"You may well need to if we go to penalties."

"We won't be going to penalties." Manager John had arrived in the locker room. He stood above the three of them. "Listen to me, we will not go to penalties. Johns, you find a way to score, and we will win."

John and his bald counterpart both nodded.

"Good. Now you don't need to hear anything else from me. Just go out there and finish this so we can all take a rest."

The simple, beautiful goal that John pushed past the net a few minutes into extra time was like finally breaking down a wall that they had been steadily beating upon all match. By the end of extra time, they had nothing left. They were utterly spent. Despite their crippling exhaustion, each and every one of them was grinning like a punch-drunk idiot as they finally retreated for the last time back to the warm comfort of the locker rooms.

Two years of playing together, months of preparation, 120 minutes of gruelling play, and that was it. They had done it. They would, in a mere two months, be going to Wembley Stadium. They would be taking on Manchester United. And – John was sure – they would win. 

* * *

Having been so long distracted by the stress of their FA Cup semi-final, returning to the League One matches was a welcome relief for the Swoodilypoopers. Their match the following week against Southampton left them room to manoeuvre, room to breathe, and most importantly room to score.

Manager John had been right about the extra incentive to score the Johns now had. Of course they were able to hug quite comfortably in the privacy of their own home, but there was something wonderfully illicit about their post-goal celebratory hugs. What had begun as the only physical contact they shared, was now a long-running, daring joke between them. It was their only chance to publicly display their affection for one another, even if precious few people understood it.

Following their third goal of the match, their hug was extreme even for them. Their knees knocked together as they clung to one another, pressed tightly from their collarbones to their hips. John let out a breathless laugh as they staggered a little, still locked in an embrace. When they finally parted, John could feel a warm flush around his cheeks.

"Now now, Other John," Bald John teased him with a smile. "Let's keep things professional, shall we?"

"I don't know what you're talking about,” John replied, trying with some difficulty to regain his composure. “I would hug any of the Swoodilypoopers just the same if they'd scored a goal as nice as yours."

Before the end of the match, this very declaration was put to the test.

"LEEROY WILLIAMSON!" Manager John's exclamation of excitement could be heard from the other side of the pitch as Lee scored one of his rare goals.

John cocked a challenging eyebrow at Bald John before turning around and wrapping Lee into a similarly tight embrace. For a split second it seemed as though Lee hesitated, but then he returned the hug with zeal, laughing into John's shoulder.

"Nice goal, mate!" John said as he pulled away, one hand on Lee's shoulder.

"Uh, thanks, buddy." Lee looked bemused at having received one of the Johns' famous post-goal hugs, but he grinned nonetheless.

Bald John sauntered up next to John as they resumed play. "Oh, it's on," he whispered into John's ear before sprinting off to his position.

In the 90th minute, Bald John scored the fourth goal of the match. Feeling the familiar rush of pleasure and adrenaline, John looked around for his husband, keen to get a final hug in before the end of the match. His stomach dropped uncomfortably when he turned around to find Bald John running up toward mid-field, _away_ from him. Eventually, Bald John found and embraced Bolzoni in celebration. Bolzoni? _Bolzoni?!_ Since he had joined the club at the beginning of the season, John didn't think he had exchanged more than a handful of words with Bolzoni. And yet there stood his husband, embracing the man like a brother. Logically, he knew that Bald John was only doing it as a joke. He was teasing him, trying to get a rise out of him. John knew this, but it didn't prevent the wave of irrational jealously from crashing over him. 

Bald John quirked a playful smile at him as they ran side by side in pursuit of the ball.

"Seriously?" John shouted to him. "Bolzoni?!" 

Bald John laughed as he effortlessly intercepted a pass between two of the Southampton midfielders. With a touch from the inside of his left foot, he sent the ball over to John. John took it for the peace offering it was, and tore off up the field towards the Southampton goal.

* * *

The remaining matches of League One were something of a write-off. They weren't going to win the top spot, but they were guaranteed promotion into the Championship before they even played their final match of the season. In fact, that particular match was such a foregone conclusion that Manager John had insisted the whole starting line up should take that day off. When they arrived for the match anyway, he wouldn't even let them sit on the bench to cheer on the second-string players.

"Go home, all of you!" he'd declared. "Go sleep, read a good book, or play Scrabble with your grandparents. Just don't do anything remotely strenuous."

With that, they were unceremoniously ushered out the way they had come in.

"Well, looks as though we have the day off." Lee said brightly, his thumbs tucked into the pockets of his jeans.

"Pub?" Cteve suggested.

"We're still on a drinking ban," Fitz pointed out.

"Poker?"

The boys shrugged noncommittally. "I think I'm going to go home and read a good book," Bald John said.

"Yeah," John agreed. "I haven't played Scrabble with my Grandparents in ages."

"Aren't your grandparents dead?" Lee asked.

"My point exactly!"

Fitz laughed. "Whatever floats your boat, OJ. I think I'll go watch the match from the Press Box. Just better make sure Manager John doesn't catch me!"

"That sounds like an excellent idea!" Lee said.

Cteve shrugged. "Guess I'm in. Can't think of anything better to do."

With a wink and a wave, Lee, Fitz and Cteve turned back around and re-entered the stadium through the front doors.

The Johns thought about joining them, but they couldn't quite bring themselves to disobey a direct order from Manager John. So, like good Swoodilypoopers, they went home to read. They stretched out side-by-side on the couch, Bald John with a political biography and John with a paperback crime novel.

At least, the idea was that they were going home to read.

John quickly got bored. His novel wasn't nearly good enough to hold his attention, particularly with Bald John's thigh resting warmly against his. John looked over at him. Bald John's brow was furrowed slightly in concentration, his grey eyes darting across the page of his book. John's fingers itched to trace patters across his smooth, milk-white skin. Eventually, he could fight the temptation no longer. John reached over and tried to pry Bald John's book from out of his hands. When the book didn't budge, John pressed a soft kiss to Bald John's neck, and then another, and then another. Nuzzled against Bald John's collarbone, John reached out again to try and pull Bald John's book out of his rapidly loosening grasp. Still though, the book remained gripped in Bald John's fingers.

"I'm trying to read," Bald John commented mildly. It was more of an observation than a reprimand, so John ignored him. 

He inched even closer and pressed a fourth kiss to the edge of Bald John's moustache. Turning his head to the side, Bald John grinned and captured John's lips in a splendidly passionate kiss. Finally, his book slipped from his fingers and fell with a gentle thud to the carpet. Bald John's liberated hands reached up to find purchase around his husband. One hand gripped John's lower back and the other threaded through his thick brown hair.

With just a slight change of pressure, and without breaking their kiss, Bald John was pushing back against John. He leaned forward, lowering John along the length of the couch. John allowed himself to be manoeuvred, pulling Bald John along with him by the collar of his t-shirt. Sliding their bodies flush against one another, John couldn't prevent a small gasp of pleasure from escaping his lips.

The noise was a mistake. Instantly, John felt Bald John pause and pull back. "Husband of mine, are you trying to seduce me?"

"Well…" John smiled back flirtatiously. "It's not exactly difficult."

To prove his point, John raised his hips and pressed them against Bald John's. He watched with some satisfaction as Bald John's breath hitched.

"Be that as it may," Bald John continued, his voice noticeably breathier than usual, "we have rules that need to be followed. The celibacy order…"

"Sod our ridiculous manager and his ridiculous rules!" John declared.

He pushed himself up onto his elbows so he could reclaim Bald John's lips. For a wonderful, glorious moment, John thought he had won. Bald John responded with renewed fervour. His legs shifted slightly so he was straddling John's hips, and John was lost in his husband's touch.

He was mid-way through undoing Bald John’s shirt when the doorbell rang.

The tinny note reverberated through the small living room for a second before dying away. The Johns froze.

"Maybe they'll go away?" John whispered hopefully.

Then they heard the metallic noises of someone lifting the post flap in the door. "Johns!" Cteve's voice called through the gap in the door. "I know you're in there! I can see your shoes in the front hall. Manager John found us at half time and kicked us out. Come on, we're going to Lee's house, but we can't play poker with only three people! We need you!"

"They might be busy," John could hear Lee's voice. He sounded hesitant. "Or in the shower or something..."

"Both of them in the shower at the same time?" Cteve asked sceptically. "Come on, Johns!" Cteve said, shouting again into the post flap.

Bald John sighed, resting his forehead for a moment on John's shoulder. "Come on," he whispered. "Take it as a sign." With some effort, they untangled themselves and went to meet Fitz, Lee and Cteve at the door.

"Alright, alright!" Bald John called towards them as he pulled himself off the couch, buttoning his shirt back up as he went. When they turned the corner into the foyer, John could see one of Cteve's eyes peering inside through the flap in the door.

He straightened up and grinned at them when Bald John flung open the front door. "See," he said triumphantly to Lee and Fitz, "I told you they were in."

"Alright," Bald John repeated, "let's go play some bloody poker, shall we?" John chuckled at the note of irritation in his tone.

"Brilliant!" Cteve bounded down the front steps, grinning.

"Sorry for, uh, swinging by unannounced," Lee muttered as they walked. "I wanted to call first, but –"

"But," Cteve took over from Lee, "your place was on the way anyway, so why not just pop by and force you to come? If we'd rung, you could have just ignored us. As if books are more fun than us! OJ, what's up with your hair?" he added, glancing back at John. "It's an even bigger mess than usual."

* * *

Before they knew it, the FA Cup final was upon them.

From the moment their bus pulled up at Wembley stadium, John was keenly aware that their looming match would be unlike anything any of them had ever experienced.

The locker rooms alone felt like they were the size of the entire County Ground. The showers were stocked with fresh, pristine white towels and expensive soaps. The lockers were made of gleaming stainless steel, and the polished wood of the long benches shone in the brightly-lit room. There was a fully equipped gym and sauna down the hall, and even a small bar for post-match celebrations. The opulence of it, while nice in theory, mostly just served to make John feel out of sorts. He missed the County Ground, with its low ceilings and damp hallways. He liked that it always smelled like dirt and was so cramped they could barely all fit in the locker room at one time.

Manager John, it seemed, disagreed. He looked around the locker room in awe. "This is the life, isn't it? Wembley Stadium!"

A few of the Swoodilypoopers nodded or cheered appreciatively. John held his tongue. Wembley was far too nice. Rich stadiums reminded him of everything he didn't like about football. It reminded him of the teenagers with seven-figure salaries and the clubs that thought they could buy their trophies. Worse still, it reminded him how true that was. Statistically, richer teams had more league titles, more Champions League wins, and much, much better players. _Let them have Wembley_ , he thought. _I'll take salt-of-the-earth football any day._

"Bald John," Manager John called across the expansive locker rooms. Bald John looked up.

"Yes, coach?" 

"Are we going to win today?"

"Of course, coach." He didn't even hesitate. Bald John stood tall and proud, his moustache bristling slightly as he spoke.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I believe in us. We've come this far, haven't we?"

"Wigan Athletic is good, but they're no Manchester United," Manager John argued.

Bald John frowned at this. "I believe in us," he repeated firmly, as though there was nothing else to it. "I am not a religious man. There is only one thing I have faith in: our team. I have faith that Fitz and Ginger will guard Fat Lucas with every ounce of their considerable strength. I have faith that Lee and Bolzoni will get us all the possession we will need. I also believe that Other John is the most talented forward in the history of Swindon. We're all here, and together, we can do this."

The team whooped in approval at this. John joined in, glowing with pride.

"We have overcome every obstacle that has been thrown our way," Bald John continued. His voice gained steam as he held his teammates' attention. "We picked ourselves up and clawed our way out of the bottom position in the bottom league. We glued our team back together whenever it fractured. We trained harder and with greater focus than any of us had ever done before. And all of us – every single one of us – have played the best football of our lives with one another. I'm sure, coach, because I believe in our ability to beat Manchester United. Statistics be damned."

This time the team roared.

"Good speech," John murmured to him when the fervour had died down.

"The words are the easy part," Bald John replied quietly. "Let's see if we can do anything with them." 

* * *

For the first few minutes of play, despite Bald John's encouraging words, they were all over the place.

John's emotions were such a swirling mess of anxiety and adrenaline that it was a marvel he could even put one foot in front of the other, let alone make a decent run with the ball. It would have been a lot easier if he wasn't so constantly distracted by the other team. John could barely concentrate while he was trying to score against Edwin van de Sar – _t_ _he_ Edwin van de Sar! When Nani dispossessed him, all John could think was that it was a beautiful tackle. For crying out loud, John just tried to intercept a pass from Wayne Freaking Rooney. The whole thing felt ridiculous and impossibly surreal. He should be asking for the man's autograph, not trying to beat him at his own game. The hubris of it made John feel terribly small. What right did they have, this ramshackle team from the bottom of the barrel, to challenge one of the greatest clubs in football history?

When he missed a cross from Bald John that could well have been a goal, John wanted to kick himself.

"Snap out of it." The words were said so quickly while Bald John jogged past him that John couldn't be entirely sure he'd even said them.

Whether John had imagined it or not, the point was made, and it was enough to shake John out of his mood. Whatever the strange quirks of circumstance were that had brought them here, the fact remained that they were here. There were 90,000 people sitting in the stands that stretched high around them in all directions, and they wanted to watch a battle between David and Goliath. Though in this case, they wanted to watch Goliath pummel David into the ground. Well, John refused to give them the satisfaction.

By the 16th minute, the ball was deep in Swindon territory. The Johns hung back by the centre line, waiting for a great clear. A good ball from one of the Swindon defenders could set them on the road to a goal. And then it came. The ball flew over the heads of the players scrambling in the box. John caught the ball with his chest and controlled it with a simple touch of his feet. He checked the field once, then sent the ball directly down the line to where Bald John was waiting for it.

Wasting no time, both of the Johns turned and sprinted towards the Manchester United box. Van de Sar was watching them warily, taking up a defensive position. He was expecting a shot from Bald John. John battled with a defender, trying to find an open position. With a tricky bit of manoeuvring, he finally had it. Just in time for Bald John to enter the box.

 _Pass it! I've got the position!_ John wanted to call out to his husband, but he couldn't risk losing the tactical advantage. ManU were too good, and an opportunity like this wouldn't come around often in a match. Besides, this was Bald John. Surely he would trust that John had gotten himself into position. Surely he would be able to pass directly to him without even needing to waste time by looking up. Surely he knew the play.

John was wrong. Bald John, consumed with the match and focused only on his overwhelming desire to score, did not pass. John stood there, useless, watching the ball fly away from Bald John's feet and land directly in the waiting arms of the keeper. Bitter frustration welled up in John's heart, but he fought it back down. Fleetingly, he caught Bald John's eye. Some of his anger must still have shown on his face, because Bald John looked devastatingly apologetic. John fought back harder against his emotions. They didn't have time to argue or to analyse plays. They had a match to win and the score was still nil all.

Not ten minutes later, Bald John had another great opportunity. A bad interception from a ManU defender gave Bald John a nearly free run to the goal. But he was too slow on the pick up and ended up surrounded by the ManU defence. Forced to declare defeat, he was unceremoniously dispossessed, and driven back to midfield.

The match proceeded in fits and bursts from there. One moment John felt a surge of adrenaline, convinced that they would finally be able to push past ManU's impenetrable defensive line. The next, they were scrambling, desperately trying to regain possession or keep the ball out of Fat Lucas' box. The Swoodilypoopers were getting frustrated; John could feel it.

At the beginning of half time, nothing had changed. They all took a brief, much needed rest before the second half began. The fatigue was setting in. John's muscles were aching, his back was sore, and the twinge in his ankle was back. He ignored all of it.

Just as they were about to head back onto the pitch, Manager John held up a hand to get their attention.

"Ginger Rampage!" he called across to Ginger in much the same way that he had to Bald John earlier that evening.

"Yes, coach," Ginger called back.

"Do you have anything you want to say to the team?"

Ginger paused for a moment, clearly considering. At length, he looked up and grinned menacingly. "Let's take down those smug ManU bastards!"

"Well said!" Manager John shouted over the cheers of the team.

As they were walking back onto the pitch, Manager John grabbed John by the elbow. John turned around to see that he also had a hold of Bald John. "We need a goal, boys. Just let ManU punch themselves out, then swoop in and take this thing, you understand? I'm counting on you. We'll never win if you can't find a way to score."

Bald John nodded firmly. "We'll find a way, coach. We're winning this."

Forty-five minutes later they still didn't have a goal to show for their efforts.

It was safe to say that Bald John was not playing the best match of his life. His shot off the post in the 65th minute still stung. John had been sure that they'd had the goal. The opportunity had been beautiful. All Bald John had needed to do was punch the ball past the keeper, just the same as any time they did it in practice against Fat Lucas, or during any of the matches they'd played together over the past two years. Instead, the ball had hit the post.

When the full-time whistle blew, John had already resigned himself to playing extra time. The aches in his muscles had turned to a persistent burning sensation, and the twinge in his ankle had become more of a stabbing pain. They were getting harder to ignore, too. Even so, John gritted his teeth and held his head up high as they took their positions for the beginning of extra time.

They just had to make something happen. They'd had so much time to just score one measly little goal, and they hadn't been able to. But the Swoodilypoopers were nothing if not good at rallying. They'd pulled wins out of less in the past.

On this occasion, however, it was not to be. As soon as extra time started, John had a bad feeling. They were just too tired. Ginger and Bolzoni were not on the ball the way they needed to be. Fat Lucas' movements were sluggish, and his reflexes were dull. Before the Johns even had a decent scoring attempt, Manchester United had punched a ball past Fat Lucas like it was nothing.

 _That's it. We would have had enough trouble scoring once, let alone twice. There's no coming back from this._ The whole match felt to John as though they had simply been postponing this inevitable conclusion: they'd lost. Simple as that. They'd given everything. They'd trained themselves ragged, they'd bled themselves dry, they'd spent every ounce of energy they had, and it hadn't been enough. For the first time, it wasn't just a loss they had to contend with – it was genuine inferiority.

They were inferior.

Of course they'd already known that. Statistically, they were in every way inferior, but somewhere along the way they had come to believe that they could win anyway. It was a whole new kind of loss to learn how wrong they were.

No one, not even Ginger Rampage, had the energy to be angry as they quietly exited Wembley stadium. There would be time for anger and frustration tomorrow. There would be time for every emotion under the sun tomorrow. That evening it was all they could do to shuffle like shells of themselves onto the team bus. No one showered in the Wembley locker rooms. The fluffy towels and fancy soaps remained untouched. No one even changed out of their Swoodilypooper reds. They just wanted to go home.

It was so oppressively quiet on the drive back that half the team flinched at the noise of the bus' engine revs. Bald John was hunched up in his seat at John's side. He hadn't spoken a word since the match ended. His eyes were glazed over as he stared forward, seemingly unaware of anything around him. John tried speaking to him once or twice, but after receiving no response whatsoever, eventually gave up and left him to it.

The drive continued in silence. John watched the scenery slip past them as the bus carried them down the motorway. Suddenly, he felt the soft pressure of Bald John's head on his shoulder, drawing his gaze away from the window. Bald John had collapsed against him in exhaustion. Without regard for anything else, John wrapped his arm around Bald John's lower back, and held him close, like a parent cradling a small child. Neither of them spoke, and neither of them cared what their teammates might think. They stayed like that for the rest of the drive.

Finally, the bus pulled into the County Ground. The boys all moved to go, but Manager John stood first and blocked their access to the door. 

"Boys," he said. His voice was heavy with sadness. "I am so sorry. Please, you have to let me apologize. If I had –"

John's gaze flitted to Bald John. _Aren't you going to say something inspiring?_ John wanted to whisper. _It's not right for Manager John to blame himself._ When Bald John didn't even blink, John stood up instead.

"Stop, coach," he said, cutting Manager John off mid-sentence. The firm assurance in his own voice surprised him. John wasn't the speech-giving type, but he knew what needed to be said. "Coach," he continued, walking up the aisle of the bus towards his manager, "we're a better team now than we have ever been. And that's down to you. You took us, the complete shambles of a team that we were, and turned us into FA Cup finalists. We owe you everything. Not a day has gone by that we haven't improved as a team, and that's down to your leadership. One day, maybe when we're in the Premiership, or maybe at our next FA Cup final, we will face Manchester United again. The next time we face them, we'll be an even better team than we are today. The next time we face them, we'll win. Until then, we've got a whole new League title to fight for."

Manager John smiled weakly. John looked around to see that the entire bus was looking at him with rapt attention, many of them giving him the same sad smiles that Manager John was. 

"Thanks," Manager John said, his voice still thick with emotion. He moved aside to let them off the bus.

* * *

Bald John still hadn't said a word by the time they were kicking open the front door of their dark house.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" John asked. "Or a shower?"

Bald John simply kicked off his shoes, took John's hand in his, and led him silently upstairs. John followed, comforted by the feeling of Bald John's gentle grip. Bald John went directly to his room and collapsed on his bed. He sprawled out on the bed, face-up, his eyes slipping shut under the heavy weight of his eyelids. As John watched, he saw a single tear trickle its way down Bald John's cheek.

Without hesitating, John lay down beside him and gathered him up in his arms. He pressed a kiss to Bald John's brow, and held him tight. Bald John let out a few exhausted noises somewhere between sighs and sobs. John's hold around him tightened. He lay there, allowing Bald John to shed a few exhausted tears. When any shred of remaining energy was gone, they both fell asleep, still in their Swoodilypooper uniforms. 

* * *

The team's first practice after losing the FA Cup was a turning point for the Swoodilypoopers, and indeed for the Johns themselves. The sun had peeked through the clouds that early day in June as the Johns raced each other to the stadium as usual. They arrived slightly out of breath, but eager for a hard morning practice. It was the dawn of summer training, when they would begin to plan their strategy for the season ahead.

They were surprised, therefore, when they entered the locker room and found the team milling around in their jeans and t-shirts. Not a one of them was making any effort to get dressed for practice.

John walked up to where Lee was leaning against his locker. "What's going on?" he asked.

"No clue," Lee replied with a shrug. "Manager John popped in a minute ago and told us not to bother getting changed. Then he disappeared into the press room."

Lee had barely finished his sentence when Manager John re-appeared. He was carrying a red and white cooler in one hand and a folding plastic chair in the other.

"Alright boys, go grab a chair from the pressroom and meet me on the pitch," he said.

Without any further instruction, he disappeared into the tunnel. Nonplussed, the team did as their manager had bid them. Each of them carried achair under one arm as they marched onto the field, where they saw Manager John and Patrick already sitting in the centre of the field. The red and white cooler rested on the ground by Manager John's feet, bright against the green of the grass.

"Form a circle," he instructed.

Again they did as they were told. Each Swoodilypooper picked a spot and formed a smaller concentric circle inside the centre-field markings. John placed his chair beside Bald John, nearly exactly opposite from where Lee was sandwiching himself between Fitz and Manager John. To John's right, Voluptuous, Cteve and Cutherbert were picking their spots, while to his left, the Boys of the Second String were shuffling around to find space. Eventually, every member of the team had unfolded their chairs and taken a seat.

"It's been a long season," Manager John said once they were settled. He stretched against the back of his chair, which squeaked loudly in protest, "and soon we're going to have to start all over again. We've got months of summer training, a whole new batch of transfers, and then soon enough we'll be in a whole new league. We'll start all over again with the FA Cup, same as we'll start a battle for the top of the table. So," Manager John's chair squeaked again as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, "I wanted to take a chance today to forget about all that."

The boys looked around at each other, perplexed. John glanced at Bald John and saw his own confusion mirrored back at him. 

"Today," Manager John continued, "we're just going to talk."

With one foot, he kicked off the lid of the cooler. Inside, a mountain of beer cans rested in a sea of ice. He reached down, took one from the top of the pile and opened it with his thumb. The beer frothed over the edge and dripped down the side of the can. Manager John drank deeply from it. John could feel the heat of the June sun on the back of his neck, and was suddenly very keen on the idea of a drink. Manager John finished his gulp and let out a satisfied 'ah'.

"Lee," he turned to his left, "would you like a beer?"

"Uh, sure," Lee replied. He wore the same look of bewilderment as everyone else.

Only Manager John seemed at ease with the situation. He obligingly reached back into the cooler and passed a beer to Lee. After Lee, Manager John offered one to Fitz, who similarly accepted. One by one, the beers got passed around the circle until every member of the Swoodilypoopers had one. Everyone except Fat Lucas, of course. When his turn came around, Manager John passed him a bottle of water instead. Lucas accepted it with a curt nod.

The pitch was briefly filled with the crack and fizz of opening cans. No one spoke as they drank their beers. After not too long, the silence became uncomfortable. A few of the boys laughed nervously to break up the quiet, but still no one said anything. They all looked to Manager John, expecting him to say something. He didn't. He just sat there, peacefully drinking from his own can and politely ignoring the rest of them.

"Coach?" Cteve was the first to break. His voice carried easily across the field.

Manager John looked up as though he had only just noticed the men surrounding him. "Yes, Cteve?" 

"This is nice and all, with the beer and the… chairs, and everything, but what are we doing here? Because, not being funny, but if we've got the day off, I'd like to go –"

"Did I give you the impression you had the day off?" Manager John asked. His voice was firm, but retained its relaxed civility. "That was my mistake. You don't have the day off, Cteve. You have practice."

"Yeah, but we don't, do we? We're not even in our kit!"

"We're having a football-less practice."

Cteve frowned in confusion at this. He opened his mouth and closed it again. He did this twice more before finally sitting back in his chair, resting his right ankle on his left knee, and taking a sip of his beer.

There was another minute of silence.

"Coach?" This time it was Beef Stock. He rubbed his knuckles against his jaw nervously.

"Yes, Beef?" Manager John looked at him with the same polite attentiveness that he had shown Cteve.

"What's football-less practice?"

"It can be whatever you'd like it to be," Manager John said, directing his attention to the circle at large.

John didn't understand. What was Manager John playing at? Was this a test? He felt sure that there was some kind of password they hadn't yet hit upon. At any rate, Beef Stock seemed stumped.

"What's the target, coach?" Bald John asked suddenly. His beer sat on the grass next to his chair, untouched.

"The target?" Manager John asked.

"Whenever you're coaching our practice, you set us targets," Bald John elaborated. "Targets that you'd like us to hit. So many feet in so many seconds, so many successful attempts at a certain play, so many goals scored. So if this is just a practice, then what's the target?"

Manager John smiled. "Why Bald John, I'm so very glad you asked!"

 _Bald John found the password,_ John thought. _Open sesame._

"The target today is for us all to get to know each other a bit better. I would like to learn something – ideally something important – from all of you by the end of practice."

This pronouncement was met with some murmurs and awkward glances among the team.

Manager John ignored them. Instead, he rubbed his hands together in anticipation. "So here's how it's going to work: I'll ask someone a question. That person will answer the question – honestly, of course. When they've answered, then they'll get to ask someone else a question. All clear?" Manager John didn't pause long enough to let them ask for clarification. "Great! Patrick!" he declared, turning to his right.

Their assistant coach did a comedic double take. "Am I playing too?" he asked.

"You most certainly are! What's your favourite food?"

Patrick paused and considered this for a moment. "Does Guinness count?" he asked uncertainly.

"Glad to hear our cultural stereotypes come from somewhere! Sure, that counts," Manager John laughed.

"That's it?" Patrick asked him. He looked as perplexed by this turn of events as the rest of the team.

"For now," Manager John nodded. "Now you get to ask a question of someone else."

Patrick looked around the circle. "Lallana," he said. Lallana looked up like a kid being called on in science class. "What was the first football match you ever saw?"

A slow smile spread across Lallana's face. "I really don't remember. My dad was taking me to Arsenal matches before I was crawling. The first one I remember, though, was the final match of the season in May of '89 between Liverpool and Arsenal. The top two teams in the League playing for all the marbles. Oh, lads, it was something to see! We were crammed in the away section singing our hearts out. When all looked lost, in came a last-minute goal by Michael Thomas. Ah, we completely lost our heads! Arsenal won their ninth Premier League title and denied Liverpool the chance of a second Double. It was absolute magic, boys." Lallana had a far-off, dreamy grin as he recalled the match. John, as a Liverpool supporter, recalled that match a little differently, but he smiled all the same.

When he'd recovered from his trip down memory lane, Lallana took his turn to ask Ramsden about his first ever goal. It had been an own-goal in a children's match when he was three. After Ramsden had endured the team's mockery, he asked Caddis whether he had ever played football drunk. Caddis evaded the question with gentle tact, and in turn asked Cuthbert about which Premiership team he secretly supported.

For a while, the intrigue and novelty of the game kept them playing, but John wondered what Manager John hoped to achieve. They were a group of footballers. They did not, as a rule, share secrets like teenagers at a sleepover. They were barely even curious enough about each other's lives to ask the relevant questions. If Manager John was expecting this to encourage the Johns to come clean about their marriage, he would be sorely mistaken.

The game took on an ebb and flow. Sometimes one of the players would pause and consider their answer or follow-up question for what felt like minutes. Other times a question would be hastily or flippantly answered in someone's desire to ask a burning question of their own. It turned out to be more fun than John had expected. It didn't take long for the questions to move on from football into bad behaviour, guilty pleasures, and embarrassing memories. Lee was asked about his first sexual experience – an apparently excruciatingly awkward fumble in the woods near his high school with a girl two years older than him. Bodin Bodin was asked about his recreational drug of choice – "coffee!" he'd insisted with an innocent smile. Bolzoni, meanwhile, was asked to divulge the contents of his iPod, which contained more ABBA than anyone should ever own.

Bolzoni, it appeared, resented being teased by his teammates. He glowered as he looked around the circle, seeking the target of his question.

"Ginger," Bolzoni said, addressing his question to Ginger Rampage, "the last time you punched someone full in the face, what had they done to deserve it?"

Instantly, the air in the circle changed. The whole team sat up in attention, aware that the game had just been distorted. The question had crossed some invisible line. All eyes were on Ginger, waiting to see how he would respond.

"Why are we doing this?" Ginger barked eventually, frustration boiling in his tone. "It's not like knowing any of this crap about each other will help us get to the Premier League!" 

"On the contrary, Ginger," Manager John said. His voice was still calm, but there was a steel in it that hadn't been there before. "I'm confident that knowing all of this will be vital in getting us to the Premier League. I'm also confident that if we had known each other better going into last week's FA Cup final, then we would have won." Manager John sighed when he noticed all of their blank looks staring back at him. "Boys, we don't lack talent. We're not as good as some of the other teams, but the skills are there. We could have beat ManU half a dozen different ways in the final, but we didn't. Not because we couldn't, but because the communication wasn't there. I lost count of how many missed passes and scrambled defensive lines we had out there. It's because you don't know each other – or more importantly, you don't trust each other. And trust can only be built through honest and open communication. We're a family, which means we have to care for one another – warts and all. To boil it down boys, we're airing the dirty laundry, coming clean, and sharing secrets." Manager John's eyes briefly locked on John before he continued. "Think of this as couple's therapy for the Swoodilypoopers."

Ginger Rampage huffed and sat back against his chair. "I don't want couples therapy, coach."

"Well, I don't want to lose the FA Cup final next year," Manager John shot back. There was no room for argument in his tone now. They were going to participate in Swoodilypooper therapy whether they wanted to or not.

There was a tense silence as everyone looked at Ginger. John took another sip of his beer.

"The… the last time I punched someone was on Sunday, the day after the FA Cup final." Ginger fidgeted uncomfortably. It didn't look as though he was planning to say anything else on the subject.

"That wasn't what he asked, Ginger," Fitz said quietly. 

"I don't know!" Ginger snapped. "What does it matter? He was just shooting his mouth off. He'd bet against us, in the final, and was in the Giraffe buying rounds for his mates with his winnings. He spoke all loud and obnoxious-like about how he should start supporting ManU since they made him so much money, and the match was a foregone conclusion anyway. It was bollocks, what he was saying, and it made me mad, so I decked him." Ginger took a breath and spoke quietly, "it's not a big deal." Even he didn't sound like he believed it.

No one was quite sure what to say in the silence that followed Ginger's answer. No one had any comfort to offer, so they just took in his confession, processed it, accepted it, and moved on.

"It's your turn, Ginger," Manager John prompted. 

"I don't know…" Ginger tried to sound offhand, but his voice shook uncertainly. "Cteve. Do you have any painful stories about yourself that you'd like to be forced to talk about in front of a group of other men?"

Manager John pointedly ignored the dig and looked at Cteve as though Ginger had posed a valid question.

"Not as such," Cteve said, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. His smile fell away when he continued speaking, though. "But I think you're probably right, coach, that secrets aren't healthy for a team. For all the time we spend together, we don't really know each other. Not really. So, in the spirit of Swoodilypooper therapy, there is something I'd like to share." Cteve looked around at his teammates and took a short swig of his beer. When he next spoke, he spoke slowly, carefully measuring each word in a way that was unusual for him. "I have a daughter," he said. "Her name is Holly, she's six, and she lives in Scotland with her mum. I see her a couple times a year, but not as often as I'd like."

That took John by surprise. Looking around the team, it seemed as though this was news to most of them. There was a buzz of conversation while people made comments to one another. Only Lee, Fitz, and Voluptuous seemed unfazed by this announcement.

Cteve coughed awkwardly and eventually regained the attention of the circle. "Are there any follow-up questions?" he asked. No one spoke at first.

"Have you ever taken her to a match?" Voluptuous asked evenly.

"No," Cteve said. There was a gravity and misery in his tone that didn't suit him. "Her mother doesn't like it. She, uh, doesn't approve of my lifestyle." 

"Cteve, mate, I'm so sorry. That's rubbish," Patrick said sympathetically.

"It's not brilliant," Cteve admitted with half-shrug, "but it's alright. Holly's well smart, she's probably better off without me. I'm not exactly world-class parenting material." Cteve raised his can in a mock toast and took another gulp of beer. "Okay then, we'll move on," he said with a forced brightness. "Lucas!" Fat Lucas looked over at Cteve. "What's something that really gets on your nerves? What's something you really hate doing?"

"Running," Fat Lucas answered without hesitating. The team laughed appreciatively, and the tension from the past few questions receded somewhat.

"Is that all?" Manager John prodded.

"No," Fat Lucas replied. He had a strange look on his face: the humour was rapidly slipping away, and he looked to be battling his own better judgement, "that's not all." Despite his words, he didn't say anything else for a long while. Just as Manager John was about to suggest they move on, Lucas finally spoke up. "I hate drinking water," he said bluntly. "That's something I really hate doing. I want a beer so bad that I've been thinking of nicking Fitz's right out of his hand all afternoon." Fitz, who was sitting next to Lucas, placed his can down as far away from Lucas as he could reach. "It also makes me mad that I have to sit here drinking water just because I'm the only one who was man enough to admit I've got a problem. Has anyone ever seen the way Cteve or Ginger or Cuthbert drink?" Lucas gestured across the circle towards them. "Those boys could use a detox just as much as me."

"Lucas," Manager John said sharply, "the point of this afternoon is not to lay blame or accusations on anyone else."

"Sorry, coach," Lucas blushed and scuffed his feet against the grass. He looked at Cteve, Ginger, and Cuthbert in turn. "Sorry, lads," he said to them. "I didn't mean it. I just… I get so…" he sighed. "I'm no good with words. This just sucks, and I really want a drink."

Slowly, determinedly, Lee stood up. His beer can still in hand, he walked over to the edge of the pitch and threw it into the rubbish bin next to the players' bench. With the same slow determination, he turned back around and returned to his seat. One by one, every member of the team followed suit. Finally, when they had all returned to their seats, Manager John leaned down and closed the red and white cooler.

"I'm sorry, Lucas," he said solemnly. "I just wanted everyone to loosen up. I didn't think –"

"It's alright," Lucas said. "I understand, really. It's not a big deal. It's just… hard sometimes. I mean, I know I'm a better player and everything, now. Sometimes though, I wonder if it's worth it. Even at my best I'm not very good."

"That's not true, Luke," Patrick said. Patrick was never much of a talker, but his voice was firm and assured now. "You're an exceptional keeper, and you'd make an even better defensive coach."

Something in Lucas' eyes shifted. He sat up in his chair and seemed to shed a stone of weight at the mere mention of being a coach. His eyes gleamed with pleasure and pride. "You really think so?"

Patrick opened his mouth to reply, but Manager John beat him to it. "That's a conversation for another time," he said, preventing Patrick from saying anything further. "It's your turn, Lucas."

Fat Lucas pondered for a moment. Then, in considerably higher spirits than he had been a moment ago, he addressed his question to Fitz. "How're things, Fitz?"

Fitz laughed at the profoundly vague question. "Not bad, thanks," he said. "Though, uh, actually, I've been better. My girlfriend broke up with me last week."

"Dude!" Lee exclaimed from the adjacent seat. "How am I just hearing about this now?"

Fitz shrugged. "Sorry, I should have said something sooner, but it was the week of the FA Cup final," Fitz explained. "I didn't want to, I don't know, draw focus, or something. It's fine, really. I can't say I was all that surprised."

"What happened?" Cteve asked.

"Nothing much," Fitz hesitated. "It's kind of awkward… I didn't have enough time for her, I guess. We hadn't seen each other in weeks before we finally broke up. The team comes first, I told her. And I meant it, so she broke up with me. It's fair enough, really."

"Mate, I'm so sorry," Lee said.

"It's alright. Honestly, it's okay. At least I've still got all of you," Fitz gave them a wry smile. He cleared his throat, as though trying to force away his melancholy. "Right, well, let's lighten the tone, shall we? OJ." John looked up at the sound of his name. Fitz was giving him a kind smile. "What's your happiest memory?"

John didn't even need to think about it. _Getting engaged._ "Right here." _Getting married._ "On this pitch."

The team let out a collective groan, clearly thinking John was being overly sentimental. Maybe he was, but that didn't make it any less true.

"Fine, I'm a sap, whatever," John laughed, "moving right along. Umm… Voluptuous," John picked the first team member he could make eye contact with in an attempt to change the subject. He would like to avoid overtly lying to his teammates if he could. "What's your biggest inspiration?"

Volutuous' biggest inspirations were his siblings. It had taken the team nearly an hour, but they had warmed up to the game in the end. As the questions had become gradually more probing, just as gradually, the answers had become more honest. John understood then, as he listened to Voluptuous speak about his inferiority complex, what Manager John had been hoping to achieve. Empathy filled him from the toes to the tips of his fingers. He loved his teammates, and his heart went out to each of them and their variety of struggles. Every one of them was fighting one type of battle or another. John felt touched that they had felt comfortable enough to confide their secrets with him. Touched, but also distinctly guilty that he could not reciprocate their trust.

"Bald John," Voluptuous said. His eyes were unreadable as he asked, "are you single?"

John nearly fell out of his chair. He sat up abruptly, hoping that he hadn't drawn too much attention to himself. To his relief, the team's attention seemed to be trained on Bald John. All but Lee, who was looking intently at John. John felt himself blushing under his friend's gaze. As though on cue, Lee looked away.

John's heart was thrumming uncomfortably in his chest, he wasn't breathing properly, and he felt as though his legs had turned to water. He waited through the agonizing seconds that it took Bald John to respond, hoping desperately that no one else could see how uncomfortable he was.

Bald John was fidgeting with a blade of grass he had plucked from the field. His gaze barely lifted as he answered. "No."

Wolf whistles and laughs of surprise greeted his words. "I knew it!" Fat Lucas was saying loudly.

"You've been holding out on us, Baldy! What a dark horse, eh, lads?" Cuthbert laughed.

"Is she fit?" Cteve asked, as classy as ever.

Bald John smiled a slow, appreciative smile. "Yes. Very."

John felt his cheeks colour. He looked down, trying to hide his face beneath his thick hair.

"How long have you been together?"

"Why haven't we met her?"

"Who is she?" 

A flurry of questions and a handful of lewd comments came from all around the circle. In his seat beside his husband, John himself felt distinctly in the spotlight. He didn't like this game anymore. He wanted to stop playing. Hesitantly, John raised his head and looked over at Bald John. As surreptitiously as possible, Bald John looked back at him. His face was full of plaintive desperation.

Suddenly, as though a bolt of lightning had struck him from out of the clear blue sky, John understood: Bald John wanted to come out. He was positively bursting with the desire to tell the team exactly who 'she' was.

How had John failed to notice this before? It suddenly seemed so obvious; Bald John had always put a high premium on loyalty, honesty, and trust. The truth was at first electrifying and then downright terrifying. What if Bald John outed them right now? Would he? John was full-on panicking now. He could imagine it with such perfect clarity, the way Bald John – in his quiet, understated way – could turn their lives upside down. Rip their careers asunder. John's anxiety was immense. He tugged aggressively on a loose thread in his jeans just so he had something to do with his hands.

His fears had been unfounded. Bald John was not answering any more follow-up questions.

"Lee," Bald John said. His voice was so calm and collected. How could he hide his emotions with such ease, while John felt like he was exploding every time he tried? It didn't seem fair. "What do you miss most about living in the States?" 

John let out a sigh of relief that was far too loud. Luckily, it was lost amidst the protests raised by the surrounding team members.

"I answered Voluptuous' question," Bald John pointed out evenly.

"He answered the question," Manager John repeated when it looked like the boys might protest further. "He's perfectly within his rights to move on." 

For all his nudges and hinting, Manager John had backed them up at the end of the day. John could have kissed him, he was so grateful.

Lee, it seemed, needed no further prompting. He immediately jumped into a long-winded reminiscence about the wonders of packaged food that had been processed to within an inch of its life. He waxed poetic about the insanity of the American political system, Dairy Queen Blizzards, and the ubiquity of Target. He spoke for so long and in such painstakingly minute detail that by the time he finished, even Manager John looked bored.

"Thanks, Lee," he said, coughing. "That was, uh, informative." Patrick nudged him gently in the side, indicating his watch. Manager John leaned over and inspected the watch. "That's time, everyone!" he declared.

The folded chairs squeaked loudly across the pitch as the boys stood and stretched their stiff joints.

"Thanks, coach," they chorused as they retreated back inside.

* * *

The team was never quite the same after that practice. Some invisible barrier had been broken down between them. It was as though, for the first time, John realized that his team members were real people. They had their own dreams, their own desires, and their own demons to contend with.

As they left the stadium, John overheard Voluptuous and Cteve discussing their children, and Ginger asking Fat Lucas about his AA meetings. John had plenty of objections to Manager John's methods, but the results were undeniable.

Walking back home, Bald John's hand brushed tentatively against the back of John's.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly. "You seem a bit shaken."

"Weird day…" John forced a smile. "But I'm fine."

"You're sure?" Bald John pressed. Strange, it wasn't like him to press.

"I'm sure," John affirmed.

"You didn't… Did you think I was going to tell them about us?" Bald John looked equal parts concerned and defensive.

John hesitated. "No," he lied, "no, of course not." Again he hesitated. "But you wanted to. Didn't you?"

Bald John didn't answer.

Matt's exams finished in early June of that year. Before returning to West Virginia, the Johns paid him one last visit in London.

"I'm upset to be leaving so soon, to be honest," Matt said. The London Eye loomed over them as they strolled down the South Bank. "Classes have been so intense, I feel like I barely got the chance to settle in before I'm leaving again!"

"Well, you can always come back. Preferably soon," Bald John said, glancing over at his brother as they walked.

"I wish," Matt replied. "I've kind of burnt through all of my savings. Don't know if you've noticed, but London's sort of expensive."

"Swindon's not," John piped up. "You could always move to Swindon!"

Matt laughed. "I suppose I could," he said. "Are the Swoodilypoopers looking to hire a psychiatrist?"

"God knows we could use one!" John said, only half-kidding. If last week's football-less practice had taught him anything, it was that every member of the team needed therapy for one issue or another.

Still, nice an idea as Matt's living in Swindon was, they dropped the joke quickly. There was no point in getting excited about a future that wasn't possible. Matt had a life to go home to, a degree to finish, and maybe even another degree or two to finish after that one. He wouldn't be coming back to England for a while, and all three men knew it.

"What do you think?" Bald John said suddenly, looking up.

John paused. "Think about what?"

Bald John simply indicated skywards. The London Eye was towering above them, rotating its slow, constant circle.

That afternoon, they played tourists. They rode the wheel, taking pictures of the city from their bird's eye view. Bald John took a photo of Matt squishing Big Ben between his thumb and forefinger and another of John doing the same to St. Paul's Cathedral. John even felt that he could get away with putting his arm around Bald John as they looked out at the city's skyline.

After the wheel, they proceeded across Westminster Bridge to take a tour of Westminster Abbey. Next, they doubled back down the Thames to explore the Tate Modern and Shakespeare's Globe. It felt to John like the first time he'd been on holiday in years. Finally, they ended up at a traditional British pub, drinking local beers and lunching on fish and chips.

When they parted at the train station, John detached himself from the other two with the pretence of getting a cup of coffee. More than anything else, he wanted to give Bald John and Matt a chance to speak alone. He loitered by the coffee stand, watching the brothers chat on the other side of the station. Their heads were bowed close to one another as they leaned against a concrete pillar. They were definitely speaking, but the noise of the station easily drowned their voices.

John's heart went out to Bald John. He had never been very good at keeping in touch with Ashley, but he liked that she was relatively close by. He liked that if he should have need of her, she could come at the drop of a hat; indeed she had come at the drop of a hat in the past. It was comforting to know that she was never more than a train journey away. He tried to imagine what it would be like having ocean and borders separating them. Without a shadow of a doubt, he knew he would hate it.

John's coffee cup was nearly empty by the time Bald John and Matt straightened up from their position against the pillar and embraced each other firmly. When they parted, John could tell that whatever moment they had been sharing had now passed. It was once again safe to approach them. As soon as he did, Matt started towards him and hugged him with the same firm commitment as he had with Bald John.

"You look after him, yeah?" Matt said as they parted.

"Sure thing," John replied.

Matt didn't look pacified. "Seriously, John." His voice lowered. The bustle of travellers and the announcements of train departures meant John had to lean in to hear Matt's next words. "I'm worried about him. Johnny has a bad habit of taking on burdens that he shouldn't have to."

What was that supposed to mean? John felt vaguely as though he had been accused of something. He would have loved to question Matt about this, but never had the chance. Bald John appeared suddenly at Matt's elbow.

"Our train's got a platform," he said. "We should head off."

Bald John embraced his brother once more at the barrier. "Have a safe flight tomorrow," he said.

"Thanks. I'll call you when I get home," Matt promised.

Moments later, the Johns were through the barrier, on the train, and heading back to Swindon.

* * *

Practices continued more or less as usual throughout the summer, but Manager John seemed to have lost some of his zeal. He spent more and more time with his family in the States and left most of their training in Patrick's hands. While dedicated, Patrick had nothing close to the give-everything-you-have attitude that their manager had instilled in them over their season in League One. The team was closer, calmer, more focused, and much less exhausted than they had been the year before. There was something special in the air as they approached the new season: a sense of preparation and organization that had never before been present in their practices. They were ready for the Championship.

By late June, summer had at last come to Swindon. Beaming sunlight finally broke through the dense clouds, bathing the red-brick houses and narrow streets in warmth. The summers in England were short, but when they came, everyone was ready at once to take full advantage of them. For their part, the Johns took to walking from one side of the town to the other during the long afternoons. Their fingers played teasingly with one another's as they strolled. In time, they started playing game to see how close they could come to holding hands without giving themselves away to passing strangers.

They were utterly content and at peace with one another during those walks. They would talk about nothing of any importance, telling unfunny jokes or debating the quality of the newest Swoodilypooper recruits. Or else they would tell long stories to one another as they walked. John finally opened up about his past with other men – right down to his ill-fated affair with his first love, Alexander Martin. In turn, Bald John shared more about his family and his evolving relationship with his brothers. Myles had been ringing with greater frequency, and their relationship seemed to finally be healing. This development had given Bald John a peace of mind that John was deeply pleased to see.

Their walks became a ritual on any day when the weather would support their endeavours. They would strike out like explorers, determined to learn the name of every lane in their town. They would trace their fingers along the low brick walls, swing around lampposts like Gene Kelley, or wander down unpromising alleyways in search of new shortcuts. They discovered sprawling fields and abandoned factories. When they'd memorized every nook and cranny of the town, they did it all over again, returning to their favourite spots.

One particularly humid afternoon in late July, they again set off on a wander. They ended up on a familiar quiet street that had quickly become one of their favourites: Westlecot Road in the heart of Old Town. The houses here were grander, and the street was narrower. Flowers bloomed in the modest front gardens of charming Victorian homes. Lush green hedges lined the sidewalk, substituting the crumbling red brick walls that covered most of the town. With the Town Gardens on their right, and houses straight from a postcard on their left, the Johns slowed to a crawl, taking in their surroundings.

Suddenly, Bald John let out a small gasp of delight, catching John by surprise. "Look!" Bald John pointed furtively across the street. He looped an arm around John's shoulder, trying to direct his gaze. "John, look!"

"What am I looking at?" John asked, laughing.

Then he saw it: a gorgeous two-storey house on the other side of the road. It reminded John of classic Tudor architecture, with its white façade and criss-crossing black support beams, but it was in such good condition that it might have been brand new. The windows glinted like crystal in the afternoon sun, and the front lawn was brimming with a bed of rhododendrons, snap dragons, and lavender. It was easily twice the size of their current house. Most importantly, there was a small 'for sale' sign planted in the grass at the bottom of the drive.

John did a slight double-take and looked back at Bald John, who was beaming with excitement. A slow smile spread across John's features. Move? Could they really just buy a new house and move? Just like that?

"We couldn't…" he began, but John wasn't really disagreeing. He was considering. "It's further from The County Ground."

"Right, because we're so averse to walking," Bald John countered with good-humoured sarcasm. His arm tightened around John's shoulder, drawing him closer.

"We…" John trailed off, not sure where he was going. The idea had begun to take root.

The more he thought about it, the more he could imagine their life there. The Old Town Gardens just across the road. The space to have proper dinner parties without needing to rearrange their whole living room. Maybe even room for another family member?

"We would finally have enough space to get a dog," John finished, smiling. Bald John raised an eyebrow at him. His expression held the silent disdain for that idea which could only be mustered by a cat person. "Or a cat," John amended hurriedly. "You know, whichever. I'm flexible."

Bald John laughed and leaned in to give him a furtive kiss. At that moment, John heard the sounds of people approaching from around the corner. In a blind panic, he leapt away, attempting to disentangle himself from Bald John's arm. During his efforts, he elbowed Bald John in the ribs. It couldn't have been hard, but it was enough to send Bald John stumbling away from him.

The Johns barely had time to catch their breath before an attractive couple came around the corner. Their joined hands swung slightly between them as they walked. They were past the Johns and out of sight without even sparing them a glance.

For a long minute after the couple had passed, the Johns just stared at each other, trying to process what had just happened. Bald John was rubbing at the spot when John's elbow had made contact with his side. The look on his face – a mess of hurt, disappointment, and even a hint of resentment – was devastating.

"I'm sorry," John said quietly. "Are you alright?" He moved forward, but Bald John flinched away from his touch.

"I'm fine," he replied shortly. As quickly as that, his emotions vanished beneath a painfully familiar mask of nonchalance. By now, John could easily recognize the difference between Bald John's forced calm and the natural kind.

"John," he began, though he really wasn't sure what to say. He was sorry that Bald John had been hurt, but it had been an emergency. John's heart was still racing with the anxiety of nearly being caught. They had been that close! Another second later, and they would have been found out. He could already imagine it: their pictures in the papers, the disgust in the eyes of their teammates, the whispers on the street. The very idea made him break out in a cold sweat. Yet there stood Bald John, angry and hurt.

John was saved having to finish his sentence. "It's fine," Bald John repeated. "I get it. Come on, let's head back, the wind's picking up.

They walked back home in silence, their hands firmly in their pockets. Much as they had with the close-shave during Swoodilypooper therapy, the incident that afternoon became another in a growing list of things that the Johns tried to pretend hadn't happened.

They never did get around to putting an offer on the house.

* * *

"Honey, I'm home!" John called from the foyer. "I hope you've put the kettle on, because that was one hell of a run with Hannah. Poor girl, the more stressful her life, the longer we run. I'm bloody knackered!"

John kicked off his shoes and left them in a heap at the front door. All he wanted to do was lie down, sweet-talk Bald John into making him a cup of tea, and not move again until their practice tomorrow. A two-hour practice that afternoon in the hot August sun, followed by an evening jog around the park, had been enough to break John right down. He slumped dramatically onto the living room couch.

"John," Bald John emerged from the kitchen. "Your timing's excellent – I just made a pot of tea. You're welcome to come join us."

Us? John didn't like the sound of that. Heaving himself off the couch, he staggered into the kitchen. Liz, the frizzy-haired ginger medic, was sitting at his kitchen table.

"Liz," John exclaimed, not bothering to mask his surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"Nice to see you too, OJ," she said with a lightly mocking tone. John was probably just tired, but he didn't like it. She took a sip from his red mug. He didn't like that either.

"I take it you'd like some tea, John?" Bald John asked from the counter. There was a calm, pleasant smile on his face.

"Sure, thanks." John took a seat at the table opposite Liz.

They looked at each other for an awkward beat. John considered trying to strike up a conversation, but quickly thought better of it. It wasn't that he disliked Liz, but she wasn't the type to easily be engaged in conversation. The overwhelming impression John had gained from her was one of cool indifference towards most things; she was sarcastic to the point of rudeness. She was blunt, cynical, and coarse. Attempting to engage her in small talk was like attempting to hug a cactus.

So instead, they sat in silence, waiting for Bald John to come rescue them. A moment later, he did. He took a seat at the corner of the table and passed John his tea. Within seconds he and Liz had resumed the conversation that John had interrupted. They were excited about an exhibit at the British Museum that John knew absolutely nothing about. It turned out that Liz had a degree in Archaeology and Anthropology, which she'd apparently studied before deciding to become a medic. Go figure.

"I'm going to go shower," John muttered quietly, unable to muster enough interest in ancient coins from pre-Islamic Iran.

Bald John and Liz, however, were so engrossed in their discussion that they didn't even pause to acknowledge John's comment or look up when he stood from the table and left the room. When had those two become such good friends? John was wracking his brain to figure it out. Had Bald John mentioned spending time with her before? Probably. John had a bad habit of zoning out in the middle of conversations; it was entirely possible that he had missed this particular detail.

John took the stairs two at a time as he retreated to his room. Closing the door behind him, he collapsed onto his bed. For a moment he just lay there, casting his gaze around the drab room. Although John's bedroom was the larger of the two, the Johns had long ago consolidated the majority of their belongings in Bald John's room. Partly this was because Bald John's room had nicer natural light, partly it was because Bald John owned more stuff, but mostly it was because Bald John knew how to make his bedroom feel cosy. John had never been able to master the art of nesting, and so his room had always felt so clinical with its plain blue bedspread and bare walls. He felt profoundly lonely looking around the sparse room.

Despite what he told Liz and Bald John downstairs, John had little interest in taking a shower. Instead, he fished out his phone and dialled.

"Hey," he said when the other end was picked up.

"Hey!" Hannah replied brightly. "I knew you couldn't get enough of listening to me complain about Lee's hygiene habits!"

John laughed. "You know, I actually think I've heard much more about that than I ever needed to."

"Oh, well fine then," Hannah huffed with good humour. "What can I do for you, my lovely?"

John thought about mentioning Liz, but he wasn't sure how to put his irritation into words. At least, into words that didn't make him sound petty.

"Nothing," he sighed, "I'm just having a mood."

"Ah," Hannah said sympathetically, "we all have those sometimes. Well, I have a story that I promise will cheer you up. Want to hear?"

John adjusted his phone against his ear as he sank into the bed. "Please."

Hannah obliged with aplomb. "I actually meant to mention this a while ago, but got sidetracked by Lee's toenail clippings –"

"Han," John interrupted. "I would be much happier if I never have to hear about Lee's toenail clippings again."

"Right, sorry. So," she continued with conspiratorial excitement, "you know my friend who works at The Daily Mail?"

"Racist Rachel?" John quipped, "Sure."

Hannah sighed. "How many times, John? I've already told you, she's not racist. She's only working there as a stop gap before she can –"

"Before she can go launch her own literary agency. Yeah, yeah, I remember. But if Rachel's prepared to work at The Daily Mail, she also has to be prepared for people to make fun of her for it."

"Fair enough, I suppose. Anyway, she offered me a job."

John sat up abruptly, fighting the overwhelming desire to burst out laughing. "She offered you a job?" he repeated, trying to clarify. "At… The Daily Mail?"

There was a strain in Hannah's voice as even she had to try not to laugh. "Yup," she confirmed. "She wants me to be the sports correspondent."

That did it. John burst out laughing. "I didn't even know The Daily Mail had a sports section!"

Hannah broke too. Her lilting giggles filled his phone as she replied, "Apparently they do. I mean, I think it's less a 'sports' section and more a 'who has John Terry been sleeping with this week?' section. Anyway, Rachel said they're trying to expand –"

"Expand to actually covering sporting events?"

"Pretty much," Hannah agreed. "So apparently Rachel's been building me up with her boss. She says they're positively desperate to poach me away from the Gazette. Then again, Rachel works for The Daily Mail, so I have to take everything she says with a grain of salt."

"See, even you can't resist making fun of her!" John pointed out.

"It's just so easy!" Hannah said, still laughing.

She had been right – her story did cheer him up. John kept her on the phone long enough to hear her promise up and down that she was rejecting the offer. When he was finally satisfied that Swindon wouldn't be losing her to the worst paper in the country, he let her go. Lee was on his way over, and Hannah insisted on needing at least twenty minutes to make herself presentable.

After she'd hung up, John curled up on his bed and waited until Liz had left. When he heard the tell-tale open and shut of the front door, he tentatively made his way back down. Bald John looked up at him as he descended the final few stairs.

"You didn't need to leave, you know," he said, wandering back into the living room. John followed behind. "Liz has been saying for ages that she'd like to get to know you better."

John let out an involuntary noise of derisive surprise. "She has a funny way of showing it."

Bald John's eyes narrowed but he didn't comment. Deciding to drop it, John took up a seat on the couch and began reading his newest book. Bald John picked his book up off the coffee table too, but didn't join John on the couch.

"I think I'll go have an early night." His bland tone notwithstanding, Bald John's message was loud and clear: I'm sleeping alone tonight.

John nodded, ignoring the tightness in his chest. "Sure. See you in the morning."

* * *

In no time at all, the football season was up and running again. The team fell with an easy rhythm back into the flow of competition. If the first two matches were any indication, they were well on their way towards the Premiership.

To John, however, it felt as though he couldn't win. The team was finally operating with smooth efficiency in a way they never had before. But at home, things with Bald John had been getting ever more tense. Day by day, John could feel all the things they weren't saying building up like a wall between them. They spent more days apart; Bald John would go off with Liz, and John with Hannah. They spent more nights apart too. Perhaps the worst part was that they weren't fighting. Nothing was wrong between them, but something was definitely wrong. John was terrified to give it voice, hoping that if they ignored it long enough, the rising tension between them would dissipate on its own. It was a fool's logic, he knew.

On the morning of their third match of the season, John came downstairs to find Bald John already up, fully dressed and sitting at the kitchen table. The Gazette was open in front of him, and he was peering over his mug of coffee, reading the sports section. His eyes zipped quickly across the paper, so immersed that he didn't even look up when John entered. Intrigued, John hovered over his shoulder. On the paper in front of him was a large photo of Manager John printed on the grainy newspaper.

' _A Meteoric Rise: how first time coach John Green saved the Swoodilypoopers_ ,' the headline read.

John smiled. "That's fantastic! I didn't know Peter was planning to interview him."

Bald John finished reading the article. "It's definitely interesting," he replied, "look at this." He held up the paper to John and pointed to a paragraph towards the end of the feature.

John took the paper and read from the spot Bald John had indicated.

_'…When asked about relationships within the team, their manager was surprisingly coy. "We've been through a lot together," Green said. "The bonds that form in these kinds of circumstances are pretty special." It has long been a topic of speculation among Swindon Town supporters just how deep some of these bonds go. When pressed about the tight bond that evidently exists between the pair of forwards, John Green and John Green, – known to fans as Bald and Other John Green – again Manager John kept his tongue firmly in his cheek. "What can I say about the Johns? Let's put it this way: there are nine other players on the pitch with them, but they always seem to hug each other…"'_

"Oh, what the hell?" John exclaimed, throwing the paper down. It narrowly avoided swiping Bald John's face as it slammed back onto the table. "What the hell is Manager John playing at? Why would he say that?"

Bald John didn't look nearly as angry about this as John wanted him to be. "He's just teasing," he said mildly.

"Teasing?" John's indignation grew in the face of Bald John's indifference. "He's feeding rumours! Rumours that could completely unravel our careers. How can you be so cavalier about this?"

"I'm not being cavalier," Bald John said. Though as he still hadn't so much as sat up in his chair, John was disinclined to believe him. "I just don't think it's as big a deal as you're making it out to be."

"Easy for you to say," John snapped, "you probably want Manager John to out us, I bet you asked him to say something."

John knew it wasn't true, and he immediately felt guilty for saying it, but at least he finally got Bald John's attention. The man gently placed his mug on the table, straightened up the discarded newspaper, and stood so their eyes were level. In Bald John's eyes, John saw only steel grey.

"I'm going to assume you didn't mean that," he said. His voice was ice. "Because otherwise I fear you really don't know me at all."

Bald John didn't stay to discuss it; he simply collected his mug of coffee and disappeared upstairs. John was left standing in the kitchen, his heart lying somewhere in the pit of his stomach. He swore under his breath. What was wrong with him? Since when did he go around making such ridiculous accusations against his own husband? John suddenly felt impossibly tired and wanted nothing more than to go back to bed.

No such luck. Ten minutes later, Bald John returned downstairs, an empty coffee cup in one hand and two duffels slung over his shoulder.

"Here." He tossed one to John, much harder than was necessary. "I packed your duffel for you. Maybe now we’ll be on time for a change." There was no gentle tease in his voice. There was no warmth of any kind; there was only accusation.

The force of Bald John's scorn caught John off-guard. He thought about retorting, but couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't make Bald John's mood worse. Instead, John muttered a quiet thanks and followed him meekly out of the house. They didn't run to the stadium. They didn't stroll or play Hand Holding. They walked briskly in sullen, tense silence all the way there.

When they arrived, John was chagrined to notice that they were, in fact, early. Quite possibly it was the first time they had been early in two years. Manager John wasn't there, so John was denied the pleasure of yelling at him. Instead there was Patrick. He looked up from a whiteboard on the far wall when they walked in.

"Hey, Johns," he said with a small wave. "Did you read Manager John's interview in the Gazette this morning?"

John was sure he heard a mocking tone in there somewhere, but Bald John would have told him he was being paranoid. In all likelihood Patrick was just curious. Even so, John just glowered at him. He was too tired to pretend that he was anything other than miserable. It seemed that even Bald John wasn't bothering to hide his mood.

Patrick took one look at them both and let out a low whistle. "What crawled up your arses?" he asked coarsely. John flinched in irritation. He wanted to go back to bed and not speak to another soul for the rest of the day; instead he was forced to deal with his uncouth Assistant Coach. Even Manager John's lunacy would have been preferable to this.

"Nothing," John bit out.

"Yeah, right," Patrick said, "whatever you say. Listen, I don't want either of you playing if you're going to be like this. We're turning over a new leaf, remember? Positive attitudes, healthy minds, a bonded team and all that new-age stuff that Manager John's so fond of. If you two can't tell friend from foe today, then you're benching it."

John didn't even have the energy to be annoyed. He and Bald John both shrugged and went about getting changed, just in case they were needed.

They weren't.

The match went off without a hitch. At a solid 3-0 win thanks to goals from Cteve and Voluptuous, there was nothing to complain about. The team was full of cheery smiles and pats on the back as they prepared to head down to the Giraffe. Recently, they had been making more group trips to the pub or – when they were feeling charitable towards Fat Lucas – the Stone Pipe Café. That afternoon, the Johns both went directly home, ignoring all invitations to have a celebratory drink.

"We're going to have to talk about this," Bald John said when they were back in the relative safety of their home.

"Look, of course I know you didn't ask Manager John to say something in his interview. I don't think you would ever be so underhanded. I was just mad –"

"I don't mean about that," Bald John interrupted.

"What do you mean?"

They were on the verge of it now, John knew. They had finally reached their breaking point.

"I want to tell Liz."

That was not what John had been expecting. He frowned, trying to puzzle out this non sequitur.

"I want to tell her about us," Bald John clarified when John didn't respond. Bald John sighed in frustration when John still didn't say anything. "It's not such a ridiculous suggestion, John."

John felt a flash of irritation at Bald John's condescending tone. "Oh, really?" he countered. He could feel himself getting annoyed, but couldn't stop his knee-jerk sarcastic response. "It's not a ridiculous suggestion? So we're not obsessively trying to keep our private life a secret?"

Sarcasm was never a good way to start a conversation, particularly not when their tempers were already heated. Bald John immediately went on the defensive. "I am not such a fool as to suggest we have a bloody press conference. I would simply quite like, for once, to have a candid conversation with a close friend. It is only fair, wouldn't you say?"

"Only fair?" John repeated with incredulous scorn. "How so?"

"You have Hannah to talk to. You get to tell her everything, seek her advice, and share your stories – our stories . Why shouldn't I get to have the same relationship with Liz?"

"Why, do you need to seek her advice about our relationship?" John asked tersely.

He felt an unexpected flare of completely irrational jealously. Fleetingly, he wondered if Bald John felt the same thing whenever John went off to have long chats with Hannah.

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Bald John rebuffed, folding his arms across his chest. "Wanting to have someone to talk to is not the same as wanting to have someone to complain to. I would like to tell her the good things just as much as the bad. I would mostly just like to be able to tell her anything at all."

Was this a negotiation? Bald John would agree to not telling the whole team if he could just tell Liz? John didn't like the terms. Why did they have to tell anyone? What was the point of being in the closet if they were just going to tell people whenever it became inconvenient to lie?

"You know, you should be grateful I'm even running the idea past you. I could just tell her myself." Bald John's voice was as cold as John had ever heard it.

"Yeah, I suppose you could," John replied, just barely keeping his tone civil. "Obviously I can't stop you. Only here I thought we were supposed to be a team, but you'd choose loyalty to some woman I barely know over me."

John could hear the sound of his own voice, but he didn't know where the words were coming from. It was the most bizarre out of body experience to fight with Bald John. Like arguing with a part of himself, and just as upsetting.

"So basically," Bald John took a breath to fight the anger in his voice. "You're saying that Liz and I aren't close enough friends, by your completely subjective standards, to merit my telling her the truth about my life?"

It wasn't really a question, but John didn't care. "Yeah, basically," he retorted. "Also, it's not your life, it's ours. I don't know Liz. I've barely exchanged three words with her, and I have no reason to trust her."

"I had no reason to trust Hannah, either," Bald John snapped. "But I trusted you. Doesn't that count for anything?"

"This is different! I had no choice but to tell Hannah, it was a much more complicated situation."

"Only because you were stupid enough to flirt with her in the first place. Even then, it wasn't your only choice. You could have told her that you were an asshole who'd led her on and that you weren't interested, but you didn't because you couldn't stand losing face."

John felt as though he'd been punched. He'd never heard such angry, hateful words from Bald John before. It was so at odds with the calm, collected man he knew. Dimly, John remembered promising Matt that he would look after Bald John. Was this what Matt had been afraid would happen?

"What's the point of being in the closet, if we tell people whenever we want?" John asked, choosing to ignore Bald John's insults.

"What's the point of being married, if we never tell anyone?" Bald John shot back.

That pulled John up in his tracks. What was the point? He loved Bald John and he wanted their lives to be inextricably tied together. He also wanted to celebrate his love. None of that required declaring their love to everyone they knew, but Bald John had a point. Another reason for getting married was to make a statement: they are together now and always.

In the silence that followed, the wind finally seemed to fall out of Bald John's sails. He took a deep breath, and it looked to John as though he'd aged ten years over the course of their conversation.

He slumped onto the couch with a heavy sigh. "I'm so sick of this. I'm done with it," Bald John said. The soft resignation in his tone hit John deep in the pit of his stomach. He might have preferred the yelling.

 _Done with what?_ It was the next logical question. It needed to be asked, but terror kept John from speaking.

"I told you, do you remember?" Bald John continued in the same soft voice. "I told you this would happen: that we would become bitter and angry and resentful."

"What…" John choked on his words, coughed, and tried again. "Done with what?"

The desperate fear in John's voice seemed to trigger something in Bald John. His features softened, and he reached out and placed a warm hand on John's forearm.

"Not us," he said firmly. "Never us. I… I'm sorry. That was mean, the things I said about Hannah. I'm not mad at you.” He pulled John a little closer, as if to emphasize the point. “I'm just so mad in general. I'm mad all the time, and I took it out on you. I'm sorry," Bald John repeated. "I'm just so sick of all the secrets and lies. I mean, does what we have even count as a marriage if no one knows about it? It's not healthy, John. How did we ever think we could live like this? " Bald John dropped his hand from John's arm as he spoke, and John felt suddenly cold without it. "Seriously, John, I can't even remember why we decided not to come out in the first place. Because the team wouldn't accept us? I can't believe that, not after everything we've been through. They love us, I know it."

"The way Myles loved you?" the words are out of John's mouth before he stopped to think about what he was saying. That was a much lower blow than he'd intended.

Bald John looked hurt for a moment, but quickly recovered. "Some of them, maybe, but even Myles came around in the end. What's to say that the rest of them wouldn't? Besides, Myles and I had a lifetime of baggage to contend with. It's different with the team; we're brothers in arms."

John didn't have an answer for him. He understood; he really did. He was sick of it too. He was tired, and frustrated, and nearly as lonely as Bald John. If only it was as easy as Bald John was suggesting.

"You don't understand."

"What am I missing?"

"You're still new at this," John said. "You don't understand how the rumours and whispers will eat away at you. They've been following me around since I was fourteen. It started with jokes, then it was giggling groups of teenage girls, and then oblique comments in the locker rooms at school. And none of that was anything compared to the boys in the Junior League." John let out a small, involuntary shudder at the memories. He remembered the way the showers would empty when John walked in. He remembered the lewd comments the coaches and players would make. He remembered they way they would look at him, as though they expected him to retaliate in some way, so that all of their suspicions would be confirmed. "Footballers can be vicious." John had already told Bald John all about his experiences in the Junior League, of course, but he didn't think he would ever be able to convey the depth of the alienation he felt during those years.

"I think, John, that you're the one who doesn't understand something," Bald John said. His tone was not unkind or malicious anymore. He was speaking softly, and his hand was back on John's forearm. "It won't be like that this time. My dad was wrong; we won't be Justin Fashanu. We won't be alone the way he was, or the way you used to be. We'll have our families, our friends, our coach, and each other. There won't be any rumours, because everyone will know all there is to know. They won't need to whisper, because we'll tell them everything. If we embrace the truth, if we accept it, and expect everyone else to accept it then nothing they say can hurt us."

John wasn't sure he believed that, but he wanted to. God, did he want to.

* * *

Things were easier between the Johns in the days following their fight. All the mounting frustration and resentment had been vented, and John felt he could breathe again as a result. Of course, acknowledging the problem was not the same as dealing with the problem. The fact remained that Bald John wanted to come out. This reality left them both in sticky territory. Bald John did not want to hand John an ultimatum. In turn, John knew that he had no right to demand Bald John remain closeted, even when their lives were so inextricably linked. So they were at an impasse. John thought he knew how the situation would have to be resolved, but he was desperate to put off the moment of reckoning.

They agreed on a temporary reprieve from their problems as October rolled in. Partly this was because they were exhausted from training for their upcoming match against hated rivals, Wigan Athletic. Mostly, however, this was because neither of them wanted to fight during their anniversary.

They discussed at length what they wanted to do to celebrate their first year of married life. While going on a short holiday was sorely tempting, they wouldn't have much luck convincing Patrick that they needed a few days off from practice. They thought instead about going out to Swindon's most fancy, over-priced restaurant, but that was also problematic. It would mean celebrating their marriage in a room where they couldn't even touch one another for fear of drawing too much attention. The idea didn't appeal to either of them.

"I've got it!" John said on the afternoon of the 6th October. He had been tinkering away aimlessly at the piano while Bald John tidied the living room.

"Got what?" Bald John wandered over from the bookshelf to join John on the piano stool. He sat down, straddling the stool sideways so his chest was pressed comfortably against John's shoulder.

"For our anniversary tomorrow," John explained. "I'm going to cook for you. You always cook, it's definitely my turn. We'll have a lovely night in, and I'll take care of dinner."

Bald John raised an amused eyebrow. "Will you indeed? Because setting the house on fire just screams romance?"

"I am not going to set the house on fire!" John protested. "I can cook! It'll be lovely."

Bald John smiled placatingly. He wrapped an arm around John's lower back, feeding his fingers through one of the belt loops of John's jeans. "John, love of my life, you can do whatever you set your mind to..."

"Thanks..." John began, though he sensed a trap.

"…but you cannot cook."

John opened his mouth to argue and promptly shut it again. "I'm very good at boiling water," he said. "And I can open a tin of beans like a pro."

Bald John laughed and pulled him into a kiss.

John did cook, in the end. Or he tried to. He really did try. He spent the morning of their anniversary selecting a complicated recipe for Asian-style lettuce wraps, complete with sticky rice, marinated chicken, and a homemade salad dressing. It was, of all things, the rice that did him in. He didn't use enough water, and as he'd been busy tending to the chicken, he didn't notice that the rice was burning until their smoke detector began to beep aggressively.

John, despite his dejection, burst out laughing. "Happy Anniversary, love!" he called over the noise to Bald John.

Bald John, who had been watching the proceedings from his seat at the kitchen table, jumped up. He laughed too as he began doggedly fanning the smoke detector with a tea towel. John was still laughing as the smoke detector finally ceased its protests.

"Shall we order pizza?" John asked, throwing his arms up in defeat.

Bald John grinned and pushed up the sleeves of his pullover. "So despairing, John. I imagine this is still salvageable!"

It was, though John needed to forfeit some of his pride and allow Bald John to lend a hand. Together, they managed to serve a pretty great meal. It was not an elegant or expensive celebration, but it was their anniversary.

* * *

Early the following week saw their highly anticipated match against Wigan Athletic. The Johns were once again early to the stadium that afternoon. It was a small gesture, but John had been making a serious attempt to be more punctual following their fight. They entered the locker room to find Manager John hunched over the desk in his small office.

"Coach!" Bald John said in surprise. "I thought you weren't coming back from the States until next month."

Manager John looked up from his paperwork and sat back in his chair, looking between the Johns. "That had been the plan," he said. "Then I got word from Patrick that my two favourite forwards were fighting. So I thought I ought to cut my holiday short and make sure there was no… bad blood… between the two of you." He frowned at them. "Listen though, if you two are having a lovers' quarrel of some kind –"

"We're not," John interrupted brusquely.

"It's just been something of a difficult week, coach," Bald John said, with a good deal more tact than John had managed.

"Are you boys alright?" Manager John asked, the aggravation in his tone falling away.

They nodded.

"Good. That's good. Now go get dressed. This is going to be a tough match."

It was indeed a tough match, right from the first whistle.

After a few minutes of intense play, including a disappointing early goal from Wigan, the match hit a lull around the 20-minute mark. The Wigan mid-fielders regained possession with a clean tackle off Fitz and were taking a minute to re-establish the play. Up by one goal, they had time to slowly and carefully determine their next move. It annoyed John to no end. The Wigan forwards passed the ball back and forth to each other, trying to find an opening among the sea of Swoodilypooper red. John could feel them testing the Swindon defenses. It was a slow, frustrating process. Finally, Wigan made their play. A quick one-two pass, and suddenly they were on the move.

They tried to make a run up the left wing, but had underestimated Voluptuous' speed. Without too much trouble, Voluptuous caught up to the Wigan forward and managed to remove the ball from the player's feet. Wasting no time, he sent it back to Lee at mid-field.

The Swoodilypoopers would need to score at least twice if they wanted to win the match, so they didn't have anything close to the same amount of time to choose their play – they still had a lot of ground to recover. So Lee, after taking stock of the team's positions, sent the ball to John. In the split-second he had to choose his run, John saw an opportunity to score. It was simple. All he needed to do was make it past one of the defenders, then Bald John would be there on his right side, free to take the pass and make the goal.

John cast his gaze around and found Bald John among the other players. His eyes were glinting with anticipation. They were on the same page. It would work. They could equalize right now. John let out a burst of laughter as he and Bald John accelerated down the pitch.

Then the world stopped.

John had been watching his husband as it happened. One moment, he was fine; the next, he landed a bad stride and crumpled onto the grass with a short cry of pain, just shy of midfield.

"John!" John was next to him in a heartbeat. "Oh my god…"

Bald John was lying in a heap on the ground. His left leg was shaking with violent tremors, as though he was trying to raise his knee, but finding the task impossible. He let out a sustained groan of pain that was unlike anything John had ever heard. The sound made his blood turn cold with panic.

 _Why is play still going? How has no one else noticed that the world just stopped turning?_ John leapt back to his feet and waved for the referee to pause play. And finally, finally, people began to notice that something was wrong. John knelt back down to ground level, crouching on Bald John's left side. It took every fibre of self-control John had to not put his arm around Bald John when he tried to sit up. Instead, he settled for reaching forward and gripping his husband's hand tightly.

"Hey," John said quietly, allowing his thumb to furtively stroke the inside of Bald John's palm.

"I'm fine," Bald John grunted in pain.

"Liar," John chuckled.

As if trying to prove it, Bald John moved to stand up, forcing John to let go of his hand. He managed to get almost entirely upright on his right leg alone. But as soon as he put the least amount of pressure on his left, he cried out, his knee buckled underneath him, and he crashed unceremoniously back to the earth.

"Stay still," John said firmly when he tried to rise again. John put a firm hand on his husband's shoulder to prevent him from moving.

The referee and most of the Swoodilypoopers had finally arrived to where Bald John had collapsed. They crowded around him in a loose circle, watching apprehensively.

"We're getting you a stretcher," the referee informed him.

John looked up. Sure enough, there was Liz jogging towards them from the sidelines, her hair tied up in a haphazard ponytail. She had a medical bag slung across one shoulder and was helping her partner, Theo, carry a stretcher between them.

Bald John looked as though he wanted to protest to the stretcher, but pain and a clear inability to walk seemed to get the better of him. When they arrived, he silently allowed Liz to examine him. Throughout her examination, John knelt desperately at Bald John's side – to the point where Liz had to ask him to move. Twice. Each time, John would shuffle away and then immediately return to Bald John's side a moment later.

The third time John did this, Liz snapped. "OJ, if I have to ask you to back up one more time, you're going to be the one needing the stretcher, understand?"

Finally, John stood and retreated to join the rest of the team a few feet away.

"I'm fine," Bald John assured him again.

"All this time, you think I can't tell when you're lying?" John teased him with a smile. He noticed Fitz giving him a bit of a strange look, and his smile fell.

All too soon, Theo and Liz had Bald John loaded on the stretcher. They picked him up and carried him away towards the tunnel. Part of John – most of him – was positively aching to go with his husband. He wanted to hold his hand, to tell him he would be fine. And if the doctors decided he needed surgery, John wanted to sit in the waiting room like worried family is supposed to. But a smaller part of him knew that was impossible. Cteve was already jogging over from the bench to substitute in. John had no choice but to grit his teeth and get on with the task at hand.

* * *

His head was not in the game for the remainder of the first half. Football used to be a precious escape from his troubles, but the troubles had come to him this time. Every time he jogged past the place where Bald John had fallen, he saw it again. What made the injury even worse was that it hadn't even been the result of a dirty tackle. John had no offending Wigan Athletic player on whom he could focus his anger, fear, and frustration. Without this focus, it came out in his own terrible challenges and poor plays.

The half-time whistle was a relief. For the first time since he had started playing football, John wished he didn't have to play another forty-five minutes. He just wanted the match to be over.

The first thing John saw when he returned to the locker room was Bald John. His knee was in a make-shift splint that Theo had fashioned on the pitch. He was sitting up on one of the wooden benches, resting his weight on his arms.

"What the hell are you still doing here?" John asked in a flare of annoyance, even as he rushed to Bald John's side and knelt down beside the bench. "You should already be at the hospital by now."

"The injury's not time sensitive so long as I don't move my knee," Bald John replied. He sounded remarkably calm given the circumstances. "I wanted to be here for the half-time talk."

"You're incorrigible, you are," John said, torn between irritation and affection for the man in front of him.

Bald John spared him a small, loving smile before turning his attention to the room at large. The players each came up in turn to check on Bald John. They all had their own way of expressing their concern. Voluptuous quietly wished him a fast recovery, while Cuthbert expressed complete confidence that he'd be fully healed and back on the pitch by the end of the week. Fitz and Lee both asked whether he was in much pain and if there was anything they could do to help. Of course there wasn't, but Bald John seemed to appreciate the sentiment.

As the break was nearing its end, Bald John called out to the team in a sharp, clear voice. "Everyone," he began. They turned their attention to him instantly. "I know this looks bad. It's certainly not how I would have liked to start the season. But this is the hand we've been dealt. The most important thing right now isn't me, or this injury. It isn't how long I'll be out, or whether we can still make it to the FA cup final. The most important thing is that all of you get back out there and focus on the task at hand. We beat Wigan once before, we can do it again. I know you're good enough; just show them all the heart of Swindon Town. Make them hang their heads in shame. Can you do that for me, boys?"

The Swoodilypoopers cheered their assent. John would never get over how Bald John could inspire a room with a few well-chosen words. It was a skill he desperately envied, particularly as he felt the whole atmosphere in the locker room change. Their drive was back – they could still win the match.

One by one, the boys all turned around and began heading back out onto the pitch. A few of them patted Bald John on the shoulder as they passed.

"Don't worry, Baldy, we got this," Cteve said as he passed.

"I've no doubt," Bald John smiled back at him.

Soon, the locker room had emptied. John placed a gentle hand on the back of Bald John's neck and leant over to kiss him tenderly on the forehead.

"You'd better get back out there," Bald John said.

"Yeah," John agreed. He didn't move.

"Alright break it up, love birds!" Liz marched back in from the medical room.

John had completely forgotten she was back there. He dropped his hand and retreated a few steps away from Bald John.

Liz didn't bat an eye. "OJ, I believe you have a match to go win for us. Don't you worry; Bald John here's got a hot date with the best X-Ray the NHS has to offer. I promise to get your boy toy back to you as good as new." Liz half-shrugged. "Well, more or less."

Liz's dry, deadpan tone made it nearly impossible for John to tell if she was joking. He looked warily at Bald John. "Did you…"

"No!" Bald John exclaimed defensively.

"Oh, please," Liz waved a hand dismissively. "As if you two aren't the most obvious pair I've ever met. I was willing to go along with this, you two pretending you're not… whatever it is you are… but frankly, I have more pressing concerns at the moment. I have to get Bald John to A&E. OJ, you have to trust me to do my job."

"I do trust you," John assured her. This was by far the easiest part of her comments for him to respond to. "I… uh…"

"Married," Bald John said suddenly. "That's what we are."

Liz blinked once. "Okay. I figured it was something like that."

"How did you know?"

"Dunno." She shrugged. "Educated guess? You're not exactly subtle."

John opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off by Manager John, rushing down the tunnel towards them.

"OJ!" he called. "Get out here, now! They're about to blow the starting whistle!"

John swore under his breath. He didn't have time to untangle this new development. Sparing Bald John one last look, John squeezed his hand momentarily before sprinting out onto the pitch.

* * *

The second half was slightly more tolerable than the first. In order to take his mind off Bald John's injury, John focused instead on their conversation with Liz moments before. The Johns had suffered through their worst fight ever over whether or not to come out to someone who already knew. It all felt so monumentally pointless and silly. _She knows._ Quite possibly she'd known for ages, but hadn't said anything. She didn't even seem to care. The more John thought about it, the more he realized how stupid the whole thing was. Of course she didn't care – why should she? Why should anyone? Maybe, after all this, Bald John was right that they could come out and life would continue just the same as before.

John was shaken from his reverie when Cteve pushed through the Wigan ranks to score a stunning equalizing goal. Right, Green, John reminded himself as he congratulated Cteve, one thing at a time.

John still couldn't forget his troubles throughout the rest of the match, but he at least managed to compartmentalize them. He focused only on the black-and-white ball in front of him and the men trying to take it away. He danced around the defense like they were statues. The simple feeling of achievement that flooded through him when he scored was highly successful at helping him delay confronting the rest of his concerns. The game ended up going so well for him that upon hearing the final whistle, John looked eagerly around for his husband to share a celebratory hug. His smile fell as the events of the first half came crashing down upon him. Suddenly, for the first time since watching Bald John get injured, the reality of the situation really sank in.

 _He may never play again. Dear God, what if he never plays again?_ This terrifying prospect carried John back to the dressing room. He barely noticed when many of his teammates clapped him on the back or congratulated him on the win. The thought that Bald John may have already played his last match was so devastating, and his concern for his husband so overwhelming, that John nearly burst into tears right there in the locker room. His thoughts were so consuming that he showered and changed in a daze.

As he did at the end of every match, John slipped the golden chain with his wedding ring swinging on the end of it surreptitiously back around his neck and tucked it under his plain white t-shirt. For this first time since they got married, John hadn't checked the locker room to make sure no one was looking. He was just shrugging into a simple grey zip-up hoodie when Manager John appeared at his side.

"Sorry, OJ, but I need you in the press conference."

"Coach…" John started, incredulous. Manager John surely knew how important it was for John to get to the hospital.

"I really am sorry, John, but this is important."

"Bald John was just seriously injured!" John argued. "That's important!"

"Exactly," Manager John replied. "We need to remind the press that we still have a great team. I want everyone to be there, but you're the lynchpin. If you're not there, I shudder to think what conclusion the pundits might come to about the quality of our club."

John didn't give a toss what the pundits thought, but when Manager John got something between his teeth, he didn't let go. It would be quicker, John figured, to grin and bear the press, than to stand there for half an hour arguing with his coach.

"Fine," John grated. "I'm coming now."

So it was that John stumbled, still only half-aware of what he was doing, into the Swindon Stadium press room alongside Fat Lucas, Cteve, and Patrick. John took his seat at the plastic fold-out table. There was a bottle of water in front of him, next to a small table microphone. John took the bottle of water and drank nearly half of it in one go.

"John," Peter called out to him.

John set down his bottle and looked up at Peter, facing him across the table. Over the course of the past two years, and particularly since they'd begun playing poker together, John had come to consider Peter a close friend. On that day, however, he was simply the thing standing between John and his husband, alone in the hospital.

"Since joining the team, you and Bald John have gained a reputation as the strongest pair of forwards in Swindon Town history," Peter continued, "but there has already been speculation that Bald John's injury might put him out for at least the rest of the season. Based on your performance today, do you think it's fair to say that you're a better individual player than you've been given credit for? And do you think the Swoodilypoopers can keep up their winning streak even without Bald John Green?"

What? John didn't understand. He had only been partially listening Peter's question, and he had to think hard to remember what he'd said.

"No," John said eventually. His mind was so preoccupied that he didn't even have the energy to be insulted by the question. "John is… John is the best player that Swindon Town has ever had. He makes me better… I mean, he makes me a better player…" John tried his best to remember the diplomatic kinds of things a footballer is supposed to say in interviews, but he was finding it very difficult to concentrate. "I mean, Bald John and I play very well together…" he trailed off, hoping that he had answered the question. Judging from the concerned looks on the faces of the other people in the room, he thought he might have failed in that task.

Blissfully, the next question was directed to their assistant coach. John took the opportunity to rise from the table and step away into a quiet corner of the room. He leaned against the far wall, trying to remind himself to stay professional.

"John?" a soft, familiar voice said at his shoulder. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw that Hannah had come to stand next to him while Patrick spoke to the reporters. She was as beautiful as ever in a polka-dotted blouse, dark jeans, and loosely curled hair, but there was something disquieting in her eyes.

"Sorry," she continued, her voice unusually timid. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"Don't worry about it," John replied more gruffly than he'd intended to.

Hannah looked around to check they weren't being overheard. "He'll be alright," she said.

John didn't pay any mind to what she'd said – that was just the sort of thing friends were supposed to say in these situations.

There had been infrequent moments over the course of the last two years when John had wished he could have loved Hannah the way she'd wanted him to when they first met. He would not have given up what he had with Bald John for anything, but sometimes – when he had been feeling particularly unhappy – John had wondered what his life would have been like if he could have loved Hannah. They could have gone out to dinner on their anniversary. They could have held hands went they went for walks. They could have had a real wedding, with all their friends. His life would certainly have been easier. Even so, John couldn't regret his love for Bald John. How could he regret something that had brought him so much joy? Besides, who was to say he couldn't still have a normal relationship with Bald John? What was stopping him?

"Are you alright?" Hannah pressed. "I don't just mean about Bald John," she amended quickly, "because of course that's not alright. I mean… you just seem…" She sighed. "You seem sad, John. You've seemed sad for ages, actually. I… I'd like to help you, if I can?" She looked up at him, concern in her expression.

"No," John admitted. "I'm really not alright at all, Han. But…" His voice faltered, though only for a moment. "I think I will be."

Bald John had been right, John realized. Of course he had been right. They had been fooling themselves if they thought they could get away with never coming out. How had John let it go on for this long? It wasn't doing either of them any good, and no amount of backlash from the team would be worth the cost if they remained silent about this.

Hannah looked up at him sympathetically, seeming to understand his every thought without John needing to utter a single word. She drew herself onto her tiptoes and kissed him gently on the cheek.

"Just remember that you're loved, John. By your team, by the people in this room… by the whole town. We all love you." Hannah said. "Both of you," she added.

Although it was almost an afterthought, John understood that she was being as pointed as she could in a room full of journalists and reporters. He didn't know what he had done to deserve all the love she gave him. It meant so much to him in that moment that for the second time in the same hour John thought he was at serious risk of crying in a public place. Instead of bursting into tears John simply looked at Hannah intently and thanked her with honest sincerity.

Quite suddenly, as though hit with a complete wave of insanity, John made his decision.

"Hannah," he said, his voice louder and more assured than it had been all day, "I'm sorry I led you on when we first met. I never should have done that. I was in love with someone else. Even when we first met, I was already in love with someone else. And you know what? I married him."

His glee caused John to speak much louder than he intended. But he didn't feel worried anymore. He wasn't ashamed, or afraid, or embarrassed. He was in love. Hannah chuckled softly.

"Yes, love," she replied. "Now that you mention it, I think I remember hearing something about that."

John grinned at her. "Do you think people might already know?" He thought about Liz. Liz, who must have known for ages and said nothing.

Hannah paused as she considered his question. "No," she replied finally, "no, I think there are a lot of people who don't know. But there's only one way to find out."

John's fingers went numb under a sudden surge of adrenaline. Silently, he fished out his golden wedding ring from under his shirt. Hannah's eyes sparkled when he pulled it off from around his neck, unclasped the chain, slipped the ring off, and smoothly placed it on his own left ring finger. He flashed Hannah a nervous grin before determinedly walking back towards the front of the room.

More of his teammates had come to join them at the press table by now. John sat down beside Ginger Rampage. He tapped his foot impatiently against the carpet, waiting for Fitz to finish answering a question. As he sat, fidgeting with his ring, John allowed himself to really think about what he was about to do. He knew that a lot of people would be angry, and he knew that this would likely make national news headlines as the first known gay couple in football history. Even so, John could only feel excitement and a sense of relief. It's time. The answer kept coming back to him. _We're ready. Really, we've been ready for years. I can do this._ And John knew exactly what he wanted to say. In the momentary silence between questions, he saw his opportunity and seized it.

"Everyone," he called across the room. His voice was remarkably calm given the momentous significance of the occasion. "I have something I would like to say. A statement, I guess. There is an element to my personal life that I have been keeping quiet for many years now." The air in the pressroom shifted as people began to realize that something significant was happening. "The truth is… I'm married." John heard a couple of his teammates react to this news, but if they said anything he wasn't able to make out the words. "I have been with my partner for two years, and happily married for just over a year. I… we would like to sincerely and deeply apologize to the people we have deceived and lied to in the interest of keeping this aspect of our lives a secret. We never meant to hurt any of the people we care about, and I would like to remind my teammates that I love you all very much. But…" John knew he was already well past the point of no return, but all the same his next words caught briefly in his throat. This is really happening. "But," John continued, "I do not love all of you the same."

Then, because Other John Green was Other John Green and because his humour was such that he could never take a thing seriously in his life, he said, "Now, if you'll all excuse me, I should really go see my husband in the hospital."

Just like that, John was up from his chair and out of the room before the penny had fully dropped on his audience of teammates, friends, and journalists. As he turned down the hall towards the exit, John thought he heard the sound of Lee's laughter echoing from the pressroom.

* * *

John sprinted the three miles from The County Ground to the hospital. Fifteen minutes later he ran right up to the reception desk. John leaned heavily against the desk, panting and sweaty. The receptionist, a genial-looking woman in her mid-forties, pushed back from the desk in surprise.

"Can I help you, sir?" she asked. She was eyeing him carefully over her wire-framed glasses, as though afraid he would collapse on the floor in front of her.

"I –" John gasped slightly, trying to regain his breath. His muscles were screaming with over-exertion, and he felt an exhaustion headache coming on, but he ignored them both. "I'm looking for John Green's room."

The receptionist's demeanour changed instantly. Her eyes widened, and a smile spread across her face. "I know you!" she exclaimed loudly. "You're Other John, aren't you?"

It never stopped being weird and uncomfortable when someone recognized him. "I… yes. That's me." John gave her a timid half-wave. "So, Bald John's room?"

"Oh, I'm sorry." the receptionist hesitated and shifted in her seat. "He isn't allowed any visitors just yet. It's family only until the doctors have finished their tests and moved him to the orthopaedics ward."

John laughed a little wildly. The sheer irony of her objection would have been funny if John hadn't been so desperate. "I am," he said, still panting. "We're married." He flashed his wedding ring at the receptionist, wondering if the thrill at saying the words out loud would die down eventually.

The receptionist, however, raised an eyebrow at him. "Mr. Green, I just said I knew who you were. I know you're not married to Bald John."

John leaned heavier against the desk. How was he supposed to prove it to her? It wasn't like he carried his civil partnership certificate around with him.

He took a breath and tried again. "I don't think you understand. I really am –"

"John!" a firm voice called from behind him. He spun around and saw Liz striding purposefully towards him.

He could have cried with relief. "Liz!" He had never been happier to see her in his life. For an insane moment he considered hugging her, but he fought the urge. "Where's Bald John?"

"Come on." She motioned towards a pair of double doors on the other side of the waiting room. "This way."

"Umm, excuse me –" the receptionist began to complain, but Liz raised a hand to stop her. The look on her face left no room for argument. John silently vowed to never say a bad word against Liz again.

She ushered him through the heavy doors. The corridor reeked of hospital – a nauseating mix of cleaning fluid, bedding, and stale air. They passed a few nurses, patients, and cleaning staff, but no one paid them any attention. John and Liz continued down the corridor for a few minutes in silence. Without warning, Liz abruptly lifted a hand and smacked him on the back of the head. John stumbled and rubbed his head indignantly.

"Ow!" he cried out in surprise. "What was that for?"

Liz shook her head. "What do you think? Fool."

It still took John another moment to realize what she was talking about. "Oh," he said sheepishly. "This is about… the press conference? You've already heard?"

Liz laughed, her hair bouncing with every movement of her head. "Theo texted me before you'd even left the building. News travels fast when you go around making statements to the press." The mocking edge was back in her tone. John bristled, but bit back a retort.

"Does John know?" he asked.

Liz opened her mouth to answer, but a third voice beat her to it, calling towards them from an open door just ahead of them on the left.

"Oh, I should think he does."

Bald John didn't _sound_ angry, but John was suddenly a bit nervous as he approached his husband's room. Slowly, he entered. The room was smaller than the one John had been in after his injury. There was just a single bed crammed against a window on the far side of the room, and an en-suite bathroom directly opposite. The venetian blinds of the window were down, casting striped shadows across Bald John's bed.

Bald John himself was sitting up in the bed. His right leg was tucked up against his body, but his left was stretched out in front of him in a new splint. He'd changed out of his jersey at some point into a plain white t-shirt, though he'd kept his uniform shorts on. He had his mobile phone in one hand and was scrolling through it when John walked in. He held it up and waved to John.

"Well, well, you have been busy, haven't you?" Bald John looked as though he wanted to be annoyed, but his lips were curving into a smile.

"I'm so sorry," John began. He moved forward and sat down in the chair beside the bed. "I should have spoken to you first. I should have at least –"

"It's fine," Bald John interjected, holding up a hand to stop him. The slight sluggishness of his movements and slurring of his voice suggested to John that someone had given him a decent amount of pain medication. Still, his eyes looked sharp when they met John's. He cracked a grin. "It's more than fine. It's great. By all accounts you gave a pretty spectacular speech. How did everyone take it?"

John blushed. "I don't know, actually. I got out of there as fast as I could."

"I wish I could have been there."

"I wish you had been too. I, uh, I think I might have gotten us into quite a mess."

Bald John was still smiling. "We were already in a mess, husband of mine. The only difference is that now everyone knows it. It'll blow over in no time, you know; we're really just not that interesting."

John appreciated the sentiment, though he wondered how much of Bald John's laid-back optimism was the result of the drugs. John hadn't really thought about it when he'd decided to out them so publically. It had just seemed right. He knew it was something they should do, and he knew he didn't want to wait. A bit of emotional distance, however, told him it might have been better to wait until Bald John could have been there with him. It had been theirsecret to tell, and they should have told it together.

Bald John, as usual, seemed to sense John's concern. "Hey," he said, drawing John out of his thoughts. "I love you." Everything else can wait.

John smiled, scraping his chair closer to the bed. He took Bald John's hand and threaded their fingers together delicately. "I love you too. How're you feeling?"

"I've been better," Bald John half-joked.

"They're still running tests," Liz put in. John turned around to look at her, startled. She was leaning against the door jam at the room's entrance. "A nurse should be coming soon to take him for an X-ray. Once the results are back from that, then they should have a better idea of whether he'll need an operation."

The idea turned John's blood cold. Operations meant longer recovery times. Operations meant greater risk of recurring injury. Operations meant it was as serious as he had feared.

"How likely is that?" John hated the tremor in his own voice. Bald John had been unfailingly reassuring throughout John's injury last year. He had been nothing but supportive and calm and unflappable. John feared he could not be so wonderful in return.

Liz gave him a sympathetic look. "No clue, sorry. I'm not a doctor. Field medicine's my thing; anything involving scans is well outside my wheelhouse." She paused for a moment. "I'm going to go track down a cup of coffee." Without waiting for either of them to respond, Liz pushed off from her position against the door and disappeared down the hall.

John had the distinct impression that she had been trying to escape their conversation. This was more than a little concerning. He thought Liz could probably have hazarded a guess if she'd been so inclined. If she didn't want to say what she thought, it couldn't have been good.

"Don't worry," Bald John said, clearly sensing where John's thoughts had been. He squeezed John's hand and leaned over to give him a reassuring kiss. "Either way, it'll be fine."

"That's the drugs talking," John said teasingly.

Bald John smiled wryly. His mobile buzzed in his free hand and he looked down at it. "My phone hasn't stopped ringing," he sighed. "I don't even recognize this number." He leaned over and placed the phone down on the table beside his bed. It continued to vibrate, dancing across the surface of the table. Both of the Johns ignored it.

"How did you find out about the press conference? Who told you?" John asked.

Bald John smiled. "Who didn't? Half the team's texted me. But it was Peter, actually. I'm pretty sure he rang me within seconds of your announcement. It was so loud in the pressroom that I could barely hear a word he was saying. He asked me for a statement. At first I thought he was talking about the injury, then…" Bald John broke off his story, chuckling to himself.

"What happened?" John prompted.

"Hannah took the phone," Bald John laughed. "I could hear her yelling at him, then suddenly she was on the line and Peter was gone. She was the one who explained what you'd done."

John smiled. That sounded like Hannah. "I can't believe Peter's first thought was about getting a statement!" John fought a mild feeling of betrayal. They were supposed to be friends.

Bald John shrugged. "It's understandable. I mean, this could be the news story of the year for Swindon Town. If Peter could have secured himself some kind of exclusive, it might have made his career."

John wasn't sure what to think about that. It made sense, of course, but he hadn't been prepared to think about his own life in such dispassionate terms. He knew they had needed to come out, and he didn't regret it, but that didn't mean he was remotely prepared for what was about to happen to them. When, a few minutes later, the nurse arrived to take Bald John to the X-ray, she ordered John back to the waiting room. Annoyed, John was prepared to argue, but Bald John stopped him.

"I promise I'll be fine. It's just an X-ray. I'll see you when they've finished with their tests."

John made the nurse promise that she would come get him when the tests were done and Bald John had been moved to the orthopaedics ward. After promising that she would, John declared defeat. He leaned down and kissed Bald John again. He didn't remotely care when the nurse made a noise of shock from behind them. John's only concern was Bald John. His Bald John. They weren't prepared. They were a mess, in fact. But they were a mess together, which was really the only thing that mattered.

* * *

John stayed for a moment in the empty room before he began wandering back down the hallway towards the waiting room. He'd silenced his phone when he went into the press conference and hadn't looked at it since. Fishing it out of his pocket now, he prepared himself for the onslaught. Sure enough, he'd received more text messages and phone calls in the past two hours than in the two years since he'd bought the phone. Scrolling through them, John saw number after number that he didn't recognize. Even as he tried to read some of the texts, more kept pouring in. His phone began to ring in his hand, but the number was blocked. John had no idea how every news outlet under the sun seemed to have acquired his phone number, but he didn't much care. The how of it didn't matter; buying a new phone was unavoidable now anyway. Sighing, John turned off his phone entirely as he pushed his way back through the heavy doors that led to the reception area.

The sight that greeted him in the waiting room took his breath clean away.

The entire team – every single one of them – was clustered in a group of chairs near the door. When they saw John, they rose to attention. Manager John, Voluptuous, Lee, and Fitz were standing at the front, but as John looked, he could pick out every member of the team. Cteve, Ginger, Cuthbert, and Lallana were grouped by one of the windows. Behind them stood Ramsden, Bolzoni, Picard Smith, and Bodin Bodin. John could even see Beef Stock, Fat Lucas, and Patrick. He was sure that some of them were happier about being there than others, but that didn't matter right now. All of them had come.

But it wasn't just the team. The room was full of Swoodilypoopers. More people than John could count. Supporters, all decked out in jerseys, scarves, flags, or whatever other Swindon Town stash they had managed to get their hands on. Some of it was handmade – messy Swindon Town crests drawn onto t-shirts with a sharpie. Others were just wearing red t-shirts, or trousers, or both. The receptionist who had greeted John earlier was draped in a red fire blanket and standing among the crowd. The room was a sea of Swindon Town red.

There was a tumult of noise when they noticed John, but it died down as soon as he opened his mouth. The whole room waited for him to speak. John wanted so much to thank them for their support, but he couldn't form any words at all. A lump the size of a cricket ball had formed in his throat. He worried that if he tried to put any of his emotions into words, he would break and start sobbing, which really wasn't something his public image needed.

As though sensing his difficulty, the crowd resumed their noise. The shouts quickly turned to cheering. Slowly, the indistinct cheering turned into a chant. They began to sing as though they were still at the County Ground. They chanted the same thing over and over again. On the third time, John was finally able to discern all the words.

_John Green, John Green,_

_Bald and Other John Green_

_They love each other and they love our team._

By the fifth round of the song, the hospital security had arrived and began to usher them back outside. John was grateful if for no other reason than he was sure he would not have been able to hold back tears of exhaustion and gratitude for much longer.

"Thank you," he found his voice long enough to call out to the crowd as they were herded through the glass front doors. He tried to shout out his thanks again, but his voice broke halfway through, so he forced himself to stop speaking.

Slowly, the waiting room began to empty. The receptionist returned to her position behind the desk, and the supporters, still singing, allowed themselves to be escorted outside. The team, however, had not moved, and resisted any attempt from security to suggest they leave. They remained where they were, looking at John like they were holding a bizarre kind of vigil.

"Thanks for coming," John said, clearing his throat. His words felt flat and utterly ineffectual, but he wasn't sure what he could possibly say after everything that had happened. Bald John's injury, the press conference, the supporters, it was all just so much. "I really am sorry," he continued. "About, umm…"

"You don't have to explain," Voluptuous said firmly.

There were a few mumbles from other members of the team. It seemed a few of them might have disagreed Voluptuous' assertion.

"A bit more trust might have been nice," Cteve muttered.

"You don't owe us anything," Fitz countered firmly, cutting across Cteve.

"No, Cteve's right," John replied. "You all have been nothing but open and supportive. Manager John," John looked at his coach, who was smiling at him rapturously. "You were right about Swoodilypooper therapy. It's important that we, as a team, are honest. John and I were wrong to keep this from all of you for so long, I know that now. You're our team and our family. Please forgive us."

John was still emotional from the events of the day, and he didn't have a gift with words, but he hoped his team would understand. He hoped they would love him anyway. He hoped – he really, really hoped – that Bald John had been right every time he said that the Swoodilypoopers weren't like other football teams. They were special.

Of all people, it was Beef Stock who emerged from amongst the group. He stepped towards John. For a terrified heartbeat, John thought Beef might punch him. Instead, he reached out a hand to John.

"There's nothing to forgive, OJ." Beef was even redder than usual as he shook John's hand vigorously and continued, "I think I'm, uh, I'm the one who needs to ask for you to forgive me. I never would have, uh, said that… stuff… at your dinner party that time if I'd known…"

 _Oh good,_ John thought, _because I needed another reason to fight tears_. He let out a choke somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

"Thanks," he managed thickly.

Beef Stock simply nodded awkwardly and rejoined the team.

"How's Bald John?" Manager John asked a moment later.

"They're not sure yet." John explained about the tests and said they should know more in a while. He promised to keep them updated as soon as he heard how extensive the injury was.

The team seemed as though they wanted to stay for the duration, but John wasn't sure he could take it. He loved them all, of course, but he was so tired. He just wanted to curl up in one of those little waiting room chairs and sleep until the nurse came to get him.

Manager John seemed to get the hint. "Alright boys, lets go! We're calling it a day. OJ will let us know when he hears something."

The team wished him well before they began to break up and head back outside. John breathed a heavy sigh and collapsed into one of the chairs. Manager John loomed over him for a moment and pressed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"You did good, OJ," he said.

"Thanks, coach."

"Take a few days off, alright? Don't come into practice, just be with your husband."

John nodded, incredibly grateful. "Thanks," he repeated.

Manager John walked to the other side of the waiting room and exchanged a few brief words with the receptionist, before he too left. John closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the chair. His ears were still ringing with the chant from the supporters, but the silence in the room was a blessed relief.

"So, OJ!" Leeroy's familiar accent interrupted John's reverie.

John cracked an eye open and found Lee crouched in the seat beside him. "Hi, Lee," John said. "What's up?"

"Not much, not much." Lee nodded vaguely. He had a goofy grin on his face, like Christmas had come early. "Just… you know, happy for you. How you feeling? Pretty good? I bet you feel pretty good to get such a secret off your chest."

With everything that had happened since coming out, John hadn't had a chance to really think about how he felt. Now that Lee mentioned it, John found he really did feel fantastic. In spite of Bald John's injury and in spite of his own exhaustion, he felt really great. He felt free in a way he never had before.

"Yeah, I do actually. It's hard, keeping something like that."

Lee grinned even wider at this. "It is," he agreed, "but at least you had Hannah and Manager John to talk to. That must have made it better, right?"

"Yeah, absolutely," John said. "I don't know what we would have done without them…" he trailed off, a thought occurring to him. "Lee… how did you know that Hannah and Manager John already knew?"

Lee looked up sharply, then immediately away again. "I, uh… I don't know…"

"You don't know?" John sat up straighter. Something was definitely weird about this. "You don't know how you knew?"

"Uh…" Lee cast his gaze about the room for an awkward moment before throwing his hands up in defeat. "Crap, I was never very good at lying! You're lucky I even managed to keep your secret in the first place, you know. Sometimes I just say stuff and I don't even realize what I'm saying until it's too late. I mean, case in point, am I right?" he babbled.

John didn't understand, but one thing was clear enough: "You kept our secret?"

"Not intentionally, man!" Lee said, before pausing and backtracking. "I mean, I didn't learn it intentionally. Obviously I kept it intentionally."

"Wait, I'm confused… did Hannah tell you?"

"No!" Lee yelped. "No, man, she was golden. Golden as the dress she married you in."

John's mind reeled with this. He was far too tired for riddles. "Lee," he said firmly, "what on earth are you talking about?"

"Dude, I stumbled into your wedding. I swear it was an accident, though. And I didn't tell anyone, honest! I was just looking for Hannah… and I sure found her. I, uh, I watched your wedding from the press box in the stadium," Lee admitted sheepishly. "The candles were a nice touch."

John gaped at Lee. "Does Hannah know that you know?" he asked. Surely – _surely_ – she would have said so if she did.

"No," Lee replied. "I mean, I figured if you'd wanted people talking about your relationship you would have told more people. Since you didn't, I didn't think you'd have liked the idea of Han and me discussing your relationship behind your back like that. So I just shut up about it… assumed you'd tell us when you were ready." Lee cheered up at this, and his grin returned with a vengeance. "Gotta say, I'm pretty psyched that you've finally spilled the beans. Secrets are exhausting!"

John continued to stare at his friend. A year. A whole freaking year Lee had known everything and hadn't told anyone. 'Thank you' would stop having any meaning soon with the number of times he'd had to say it that afternoon.

"John!" Hannah's voice echoed across the room, interrupting them. John and Lee looked over to see her darting towards them from the entrance. John was grateful - she distracted him from the fresh wave of gratitude that was threatening to overwhelm him.

"Hey, Han," John said.

"I'm sorry." She was a little out of breath, and there was sweat beading across her forehead. "I held them off for as long as I could, but they're coming."

"Who are?" Lee asked.

"The press."

* * *

* * *

Hannah MacMillan had loved football all her life.

When she was four years old, her mum had died. Her dad, unsure how else to relate to his young, frightened daughter, started taking her to football matches. The idea had been to give them something to bond over, and it worked better than either of them could have anticipated. The pair of them – the little Scottish girl and her Geordie father – would travel down from Edinburgh once a month (twice if there was a bank holiday) and go to Newcastle matches together.

Hannah took to it instantly. She would stand up in the little plastic folding seats to see over the heads of the other spectators, and cheer wildly every time anyone scored – it didn't much matter which team. She liked how beautiful it all was. Everyone talked about football being a brutal, ladish affair, but Hannah hadn't seen it that way. It was more like a dance. Each play was carefully choreographed, and the men in the black and white stripes knew their steps very well.

She played at school, but there weren't a lot of opportunities for female footballers, so she'd always side-lined it as a hobby. Later in life, she took up art, photography, literature, and journalism. But her first love never left her. When she graduated from her journalism masters, she'd been offered two jobs out of the gate. The first was as a junior picture researcher for The Guardian. The other was as a photojournalist for the sports section of The Swindon Town Gazette.

The choice had been incredibly easy.

Peter took her under his wing instantly, and she slipped effortlessly into being 'one of the boys'. In no time at all, Swindon – for all its charmless warehouses, factories, and roundabouts – became her home. The Swoodilypoopers had been terrible back then. It had been genuinely painful to watch at first. She was forced to cover a dozen losses for every win or draw they managed to pull out of the bag. Then hope appeared, first in the form Manager John, and later in the form of the Johns. No one in the press world had been sure how exactly he'd done it, but with a few careful transfers and a lot of discipline, John Green turned the Swoodilypoopers around. The Johns – all three of them – filled the team with new life. That Hannah got her best friend out of the bargain was a bonus.

She looked at this friend now. Other John's eyes had dark rings underneath them. He looked shattered, and sad, and utterly spent. In truth, he'd looked that way for the better part of three weeks, and it had been quietly breaking her heart. There was a spark in his eyes now, though, that hadn't been there before. As she watched, the spark grew. He straightened up his posture, and a slow smile spread across his face.

"Hannah," he said. There was an assurance in his voice that filled her with anticipation. _He's decided._ "I'm sorry I led you on when we first met. I never should have done that. I was in love with someone else. Even when we first met, I was already in love with someone else. And you know what? I married him."

Hannah chuckled. _He's definitely decided._

"Yes, love," she replied. "Now that you mention it, I think I remember hearing something about that." She didn't say that his wedding was one of her happiest memories. She didn't say how much it meant to her that she'd been trusted with such an important secret or how honoured she'd been to marry them. It was worth every lie she'd needed to tell. He was worth every lie she'd needed to tell. She didn't say any of that because there was no need. He already knew. Instead, she grinned at him.

"Do you think people might already know?" he asked her, suddenly sounding nervous.

Hannah thought about Lee. More than once she'd had her suspicions that he knew more than he was saying. Come to that, Fitz and Voluptuous seemed pretty clued in too. She remembered a couple of passing comments they'd made at a poker night the week before last. Then she thought about every other Swoodilypooper on the team. "No," she replied finally, "no, I think there are a lot of people who don't know. But there's only one way to find out."

As she watched, John took his wedding ring off its usual chain and slipped it onto his finger, where it belonged.

It was all Hannah could do to remain calm and re-join Peter in the press section.

"Hey." Peter nudged her gently in the ribs when she'd taken her seat beside him. "You hear? They're saying it's a torn ACL."

It took Hannah a moment to realize what Peter was talking about. "Bald John, you mean? It's a torn ACL?"

"Apparently," Peter nodded. "So say my sources, anyway."

By 'sources', Hannah knew he meant Theo, the medic. Peter and Theo had been at school together. They were both Swindon boys, born and bred, which apparently resulted in a kind of deep-seeded loyalty to one another. One of the biggest advantages to being a journalist in a place as small as Swindon was the close-knitted network that could be successfully cultivated. The first lesson Peter had ever given Hannah was to become friends with everyone. People forget you work for the press when you're their friends, he'd told her. It was good advice, though Hannah wasn't wild about the manipulation involved. Peter was a good man, really. But he was a better reporter than a friend.

Hannah looked up at the players sitting along the table at the front of the room. Ginger was answering a question about their defensive strategies for the new season. Hannah's gazed flitted away from him and found Lee, who seemed to be trying and failing to pay attention to Ginger's answer. She appreciated that Peter's philosophy was probably a good one, but she didn't think she'd be able to so cleanly find the line between friend and journalist.

Oliver, the reporter for NewsNow, leaned forward from his seat behind them and punched Hannah in the arm, as though that was a normal way to greet someone. She looked over at him. He had a slim build, tanned skin, and thinning black hair. The sleeves of his green plaid shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and he rested his arms on the back of Hannah and Peter's chairs. Oliver had been working for NewsNow since well before Hannah's move to Swindon. He was a middle-aged man with an adolescent sense of humour. Hannah liked Oliver, generally, though he did have a tendency to over-indulge at the pub. More than once she'd had to extract herself from his excessively friendly grasp.

"What's this about BJG's injury?" he asked now with an eager smile.

"Never you mind, Olly," Peter said with good-natured competitiveness. "Get your own sources, eh?"

Oliver opened his mouth to retort, but at the same moment, Other John began to speak. His voice was amplified through one of the table microphones and had a tinny echo as it reverberated around the busy room. Hannah felt a jolt of excitement shoot through her.

"Shhh," she hissed at the boys beside her, waving at them to fall silent.

"…an announcement, I guess," John was saying.

It rapidly became clear among the reporters that they should be paying more attention. Hannah watched many of her friends from the local papers take out their recorders and sit up straighter in their chairs. A few camera men at the back of the room checked their frames. Peter momentarily caught Hannah's gaze before he too turned to focus on John. Remembering suddenly that she had a job to do, Hannah snapped a quick flurry of photographs.

"…there's an element to my personal life that I've been keeping quiet for many years now…"

Hannah had a single moment – the span of a deep breath – to understand the full significance of what was about to happen. This would make national headlines, maybe even international ones. It would likely be one of the biggest sports stories of the year, and it would easily be the most significant news story in Swoodilypooper history. All hell was about to break loose.

When John revealed that he was married, Hannah watched with wary attention as the team began to mutter and look at one another in confusion. Cteve and Cuthbert bent their heads together and exchanged words that she had no hope of catching. Manager John looked taken aback by this turn of events, but immensely pleased. Hannah supposed he must have been waiting for this moment for quite some time. Lee, surprisingly, also looked thrilled. He was casting his gaze about the room, as though he couldn't quite believe he was awake. Most of the team, however, was simply frowning in polite confusion, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Now, if you'll all excuse me, I should really go see my husband in the hospital."

There it is. Hannah was torn between exasperation, amusement, and utter delight. John didn't hesitate. He didn't wait to gauge the press' reaction. He was sprinting out of the room before a single reporter was able to lift their jaw off the floor quickly enough to ask him a follow up question.

The stunned silence was abruptly broken by Lee, who broke into a fit of laughter. Hannah grinned at him. She loved him most of all when he laughed, which – thankfully – he did a great deal. It was strange, though: he seemed far too happy, and not nearly shocked enough. This was definitely something to investigate, though she had no time to dwell on it.

A moment later, Cuthbert was on his feet and shouting across the room. "Holy shit! The Johns are married!"

 _Tomorrow's headline: a summation by Sir Cuthbert_ , Hannah thought wryly.

Lee laughed even louder, but it was abruptly drowned in a cacophony of noise from the press section. Everyone surged to their feet en masse, shouting themselves hoarse to be heard over each other. Some of them were yelling for Other John, as though they hadn't noticed him leave. Others were calling to Manger John for answers. Some of the team were shouting answers or questions or general exclamations. It was utter chaos.

"Manager John, did you know about this?"

"How will this affect the team?"

"The Johns are gay?"

"Is this some kind of joke?"

"I knew it!"

 _Focus… focus._ Hannah tried to block out the shouting and think. _What's going to happen next?_ She didn't have a lot of experience with breaking news, but she'd been an intern at the BBC during the 2002 World Cup. She remembered what was involved in covering big stories.

_Exclusives. Everyone and their mother will be after an exclusive statement…_

Right on cue, Hannah saw Peter out of the corner of her eye. He was on the phone.

"Bald John?" It was so loud that he was shouting down the line just to be heard. "Hey, it's Peter, mate. How's it going? Great! Listen, I was hoping you could give me a statement. No, no, about OJ's announcement!"

"Seriously?" Hannah shouted to him, incredulous and not half annoyed. "Seriously, Pete? The man's in hospital!"

Without waiting for him to respond, she lifted the phone right out of Peter's hand.

"Bald John?" she shouted. "Hold on a tick!"

Peter made a grab for his phone, but Hannah danced nimbly out of his reach. She darted out of her seat and made a b-line for the exit. Her heavy camera swung wildly around her neck like a heavy-duty, very expensive necklace as she sprinted out of the press room. She took off down the hall and turned into the first open door she came to. The visitor's locker room. It was empty and no one was likely to disturb her. Perfect.

"Hello?" a bemused Bald John was calling down the line. "What on Earth's going on over there?"

"Hey," Hannah said, able at last to speak at a normal volume. "I'm afraid you've missed some dramatics over here!" She explained as quickly as she could about what had just transpired. Bald John listened in careful silence, right up until the point where she relayed the details of John's speech.

Bald John let out a noise of shock. "He really said 'I do not love all of you the same'? He couldn't have come up with something less… hokey?"

Hannah chuckled. "Do you object to the content or the oratory?"

"The oratory, mostly," Bald John admitted.

"Don't worry," Hannah assured him, "the delivery was very good."

"Seriously, though?" Bald John said, reverence in his tone, as though he dare not believe that she was speaking the truth. "He really said all that?"

"He did. Then he closed it off with: 'Now, if you'll all excuse me, I should really go see my husband in the hospital.' He damn near caused a riot in the press room." Bald John was silent on the other line for a moment, clearly still absorbing this information. "Are you alright?" Hannah prompted.

"Yes… It's… wow."

Hannah felt her phone start to vibrate in her pocket. She pulled it out and inspected the call-ID. Crap.

"I'm so sorry John," she interrupted, "I know it's a lot to take, but I have to go." Her phone had already rung three times now. "Listen though, one last thing, really important. Don't answer your phone again, alright? Whatever you do, don't answer your phone!"

She didn't give Bald John a chance to respond, but hung up Peter's phone and immediately answered her own.

"Rachel!" she forced a tone of bright cordiality. "How're things at The Daily Mail?"

"Well, darling!" Rachel's voice, shrill with excitement, filled Hannah's ear. "I should really be asking you, shouldn't I? There's some absolutely unbelievablegossip coming from your neck of the woods! Is this why you didn't want to come work for us? You knew all the big news was in Swindon – Swindon, of all places!"

"Rachel, listen," Hannah took a breath. Let's play. "I need a favour."

"Well, with bargaining chips the likes of these, I'm sure we can make an arrangement. What do you need, sweetheart?"

Hannah didn't hesitate. "A diversion. I need the hospital press-free for as long as possible." _Time. What I need is time. Need to prep their statement, prep them, prep the team if I can. Forward their phones, bury their addresses if it's not too late…_

"Sure, sure…" Rachel was saying, "we could plant a lead. Leak word that your Bald John fellow's been re-located to a private hospital. Is there one in the area?"

"The Ridgeway," Hannah confirmed. "Leak word they're there."

"I'll even get my boys to set up a crew, just for some added credibility," Rachel promised.

"You're wonderful," Hannah told her. She almost meant it too, until Rachel spoke again.

"So, what are we getting?"

"Well," Hannah hedged, "not too much digging would give you their real hospital location."

"What else?" Rachel pressed. "We need a source."

Hannah sighed. She'd been prepared to make a deal as soon as she'd answered the call, but she would have preferred not to. "I can give you 'an anonymous colleague'."

"'An anonymous ex-lover'."

"Ha!" Hannah laughed, "At least you're giving us plenty of room to negotiate. 'A long-time colleague'."

"A named friend?" Rachel pressed.

"An anonymous friend," Hannah countered firmly.

"Deal. What's the quote?"

"An anonymous friend confirmed she'd never seen them happier than when they're playing together."

"Han, sweetheart, you'll have to do better than that!"

Again Hannah let out a sigh. She remembered for the millionth time why she had no interest in working for The Daily Mail.

"A friend of the Johns confirmed that they had an intimate wedding ceremony on The County Ground pitch in the presence of friends and family."

Rachel let out a deeply irritating coo of happiness. "Is that really true? Oh, we couldn't have invented better!"

"Always a pleasure doing business, Rachel," Hannah said tersely. She hung up the phone.

* * *

No sooner had Hannah left the visiting locker room, than she collided headlong into Lee. Her camera slammed uncomfortably into her stomach. She took a step back, apologizing quickly, and looked up at her boyfriend. His eyes were still sparkling with pleasure, though he also looked more sober than he had in the press room.

"Hey," Hannah leaned a little towards him, but didn't make any other kind of sign of affection. "So… how's your day been?"

Lee laughed heartily. "It's been a great day," he said.

Hannah raised an eyebrow at him and smirked indulgently. "Bald John got very seriously injured, and two of your friends – if not the entire team – are going to be up to their eyeballs in media attention for the foreseeable future," she pointed out.

Lee's smiled immediately fell. "Right, good point. Okay, apart from that, I guess."

"You don't seem too surprised by this turn of events," Hannah pressed. There was a time and a place to have this conversation. This was most definitely not it. Even so, she couldn't resist. Journalistic curiosity, a weakness for gossip, a longstanding desire to speak openly with Lee – all of these things drove her to press the point.

"Neither did you," he argued.

Touché. Hannah made a mental note to work on her 'surprised face'. "You already knew, didn't you?" she asked, ignoring his comment.

"Hannah MacMillan! You get your arse over here this second!" Peter's enraged voice boomed down the hallway.

 _That, right there, is why I should have waited for a better time and place to speak with Lee._ Hannah peered around Lee's shoulder to where Peter was standing a ways down the hall, red in the face. She gave him a quick half-wave of acknowledgement.

"We'll speak later, I guess," she said to Lee.

"Later," he agreed. "I think a few of us are planning a show of support for the Johns down at the hospital. Do you want to come?"

"Do you even have to ask?"

Lee smiled and kissed her quickly. "So much for our dinner plans, huh? I'll see you later." Without a further word, he continued down the hall towards the home locker rooms.

Peter was livid, of course, but Hannah didn't have the time to placate him.

"…to interfere with my work like that," he was ranting at her in the middle of the hallway for a full thirty seconds before Hannah finally lost her patience. "Honestly, Hannah, sometimes I wonder whose side you're really on…"

"Enough, Pete," she snapped, pulling his phone out of her pocket, and slamming it into his hand. "Seriously, enough. What were you thinking, calling the Johns like that? For all you know, Bald John is hopped up on so many painkillers that he can't even remember his own name. Where's your journalistic integrity? Besides which, this is the Johns we're talking about. You're not trying to get an exclusive with Steven Gerrard! This is Swindon Town's Bald John. When the two of them are finally ready to speak to the press, which by the way, will be exactly when they decide to speak to the press, who do you think they'll want to sit down with? The paper that's been covering their professional careers for three years, or the first tabloid to jump on the bandwagon? Have a little faith, Peter. Better yet, some respect. These are our friends you're talking about."

There was a beat of awkward silence between them. When Peter spoke again, his voice was clipped with irritation, but at least he was back to being civil. "I'm having Glenn bring a camera so we can get some filmed footage of the Johns at the hospital. Word is Bald John's been transferred to The Ridgeway. It's weird, actually. Manager John usually makes a point of using NHS facilities…"

Hannah could feel the accusation coming, but she really did not want to tell Peter about the deal she made with Rachel. Something told her he wouldn't like that she'd traded an exclusive to a competitor. Now that Hannah paused to think about it, she wondered if that was a fireable offense. Best not to find out.

"I need to go," she said. "The Johns are going to need all the PR help they can get."

Peter sighed and nodded. "I guess it's pretty clear which side you're on, in the end." There was no longer any malice in his tone, it was just a statement of fact.

 _There aren't any sides,_ Hannah wanted to protest. "I guess so," she said instead.

* * *

In the two years since John had come out to her, Hannah had not been idle. For as long as she'd been trusted with their secret, she'd been doing all she could to either protect their secret, or prepare for this eventuality.

After their marriage, she'd buried their civil union records with the help of a friend in the town council's office. She'd also drafted a statement for them in the event that they did at last decide to come out.

Retrieving the statement was her next order of business. She took the stairs two at a time through the lobby of the County Ground, darting her way to the familiar Press Box. This room, with its stunning view of the pitch and bottomless bar, was her favourite place in the whole of Swindon. The lights took a moment to shudder to life after she flipped the switch. They flickered as she dropped to her knees and unlocked the small safe at the back of the closet. Normally the safe was used for her cameras, but at the back she also kept a small file folder. Amongst her passport and other random documents was the statement she'd drafted. Jackpot.

She found the sheet of paper she'd been looking for and was about to close up the safe when something else caught her eye. A rectangular present wrapped in red paper and finished with a golden bow had been crammed into the back of the safe. It had been there for so long that Hannah had completely forgotten about it. She lifted it out and wiped away the thin layer of dust that had accumulated on it. She stuffed it into a purse along with the camera from around her neck and the written statement. She slung the bag across her shoulder and locked everything behind her.

She hoped she wasn't too late to catch the team and get up to speed on whatever 'show of support' Lee had been talking about. She skittered into the boys' locker rooms without thinking about it, and immediately regretted it.

The room was mostly empty. The lockers had been cleaned out, so Hannah assumed she must have been too late to catch the team. But the room was not entirely empty. There were angry, raised voices coming from Manager John's small office in the corner of the room. The door was closed, but it was hardly soundproof.

"They're Swoodilypoopers and you will give them your support." Manager John sounded as angry as Hannah had ever heard him. And she'd been around back when they lost more games than they won. "They're much better at being Swoodilypoopers than you are right now."

She considered turning around and quietly backing out of the room the way she'd come in. She knew it was the right thing to do, but her curiosity got the better of her. She never had been able to resist gossip when it was presented to her. With a pang of guilt, she thought that maybe she'd be quite a good reporter for The Daily Mail, after all.

She could see at least two figures in the backlit office, but there could have been more of them. Whoever was in the room with Manager John shot back, "You're not listening! All I meant was…"

"I know what you meant!" Manager John was still roaring in rage. "And if I ever hear you use such utterly foul language again, I swear to you that I will have you off this team in a heartbeat. I will not tolerate it, and don't you dare think I wouldn't replace you without a second thought. I won't have your poisonous attitude infecting the rest of the team. Clear?"

"Yes, coach."

"And you will come with the rest of us to the hospital."

There was a prolonged silence inside the room.

"Patrick?" Manager John prodded sharply.

"Yes, coach," came the biting reply.

"Good." There was no post-argument pleasantry in Manager John's voice. Hannah had heard him tell off Patrick and the players before, but it always ended with a cheery pleasure that the fight was over. This was different. Manager John's voice was still cold as ice. "Get out of my sight."

Before Hannah had time to process more than the fact that it had been Patrick getting told off, the door of the office was open, and Patrick was storming out. He was red in the face and looked haggard. He locked eyes with Hannah, swore obscenely, and shoved past her on his way out of the locker room.

Manager John leaned his head out a moment later and noticed Hannah, still frozen in shock. His features were inscrutable as he looked at her. "Am I going to be reading about this in tomorrow's paper?" he asked at last.

"You'll be reading about a lot of things tomorrow," Hannah replied, "but word on the street is that the team has been nothing but supportive of the Johns."

Manager John nodded approvingly. "We're going to the hospital. The rest of the team should already be there. I think of a few of them were trying to shore up some of the supporters too. Not sure how many people are coming, but it might be quite a lot. Do you want a ride?"

"With you and Patrick? I think I'd rather follow behind." She regretted such a flippant reply almost immediately. The Patrick thing would be a problem; she shouldn't joke about it.

Manager John didn't react beyond a polite nod. "See you there," he said.

Hannah nodded back and took her cue to leave.

"I didn't approve, at first." Manager John said. Hannah turned around again to look at him. He hadn't moved from the edge of his office door.

"Didn't approve of the Johns in general, or didn't approve of them keeping it a secret?" she asked.

"Didn't approve of them telling you."

"Oh." Hannah didn't know what she was supposed to say in response to that. She felt some kind of need to apologize, though she wasn't sure why.

"I didn't think they could trust you," he continued. "You do work for the press, after all. You're nice and everything, but you seemed like a gossip."

"Are you trying to say that you were wrong about me?" she asked with a teasing smile.

"I'm trying to say that maybe you weren't one of the people I should be worrying about."

Moving forward, he sat down heavily on one of the benches in the middle of the locker room and rested his head in the palms of his hands. Unsure of what she was doing, Hannah followed suit and sat down beside him. She looked down at her own hands, resting in her lap.

"Do you know what my first reaction was when Other John came out to me?" she asked him.

Manager John looked up at her. "I suspect you're about to tell me," he said with a small smile.

Hannah liked Manager John, generally, but they'd never really spent any time together. He seemed like a good man, and he was certainly a great Manager. Plus he'd known about the Johns for ages and kept them on, so that was surely to his credit. Even so, she was wary of trusting him with this story.

"I'm not proud of it," Hannah prefaced, "but mostly I was really angry."

This seemed to throw Manager John for a loop. "OJ… he said you were really supportive…"

"I got over it pretty quickly," Hannah amended. "Once I had a moment to think about it, I was worried about them, of course. I was sorry that they'd felt the need to lie, and that they would need to continue to lie. I understood why they had kept their private lives a secret. But all of that came later. My very first feelings weren't nearly so generous. I was humiliated that I'd made such a show of fancying John… it's funny to think about now. Weird, like kissing my cousin or something, but I really had liked him. Anyway, the point is: I felt betrayed and lied to and played."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"My point is, I was angry and I found out about this two years ago. Some of the team – the ones who didn't see it coming – will feel like they've been made fools of. Like all this time the Johns were laughing at them, carrying on with a secret life that they didn't deem the rest of the team worthy of being let in on."

"Yeah," Manager John agreed solemnly. "I never wanted them to keep this a secret at all, you know?"

"I know, but the truth is that any other footballer would have done the same thing in their position. And tell you what," Hannah nudged Manager John gently with her shoulder, "if there's one football club in the world that could still accept these two, it's Swindon Town. I really believe that. They'll come around, Patrick and any of the players who agree with him. The Johns are beloved, and that's not likely to go anywhere."

"What if they don't come around?" Manager John asked quietly. It seemed to Hannah that he was speaking more to himself than to her, but she answered him anyway.

"Then they're not Swoodilypoopers."

Patrick appeared suddenly at the door to the locker room, looking irate. "Coach, we going or what?"

"Yes," he replied. With a quick glance at Hannah, he rose from the bench and followed Patrick to the exit. Just before he left, he looked over his shoulder to where Hannah was still sitting. "Oh, and Hannah? I was wrong about you."

* * *

It took Hannah longer than she'd intended to get to the hospital. She was halfway there when she remembered to stop into the Currys and buy a pair of disposable phones. While she was at it, she made a couple calls to Vodafone.

She knew something was happening at the hospital as soon as she walked towards the front door. She couldn't even get close to the entrance, there were so many people ramming their way through the door in a sea of red clothing, Swoodilypooper jerseys, and even some homemade signs. Wow, Lee, you really outdid yourself. Hannah felt a rush of love for Lee, the Johns, and the whole town of Swindon. She crept closer to one of the hospital windows and peered inside. As she watched, John emerged into the lobby and seemed bowled over in shock at the sight that greeted him. Hannah couldn't resist – she dug her camera out of her bag and took as many photos as she could. She didn't think Peter would ever forgive her if she didn't document at least some of this.

Briefly, Hannah considered whether she hadn't made a mistake by getting rid of the reporters. This was quite something, and a story like this might go a long way towards bolstering national support for the only out footballers in the world. Even as she thought about calling Peter and getting him over here, she was tapped forcefully on the shoulder.

"You planted a leak, huh?" Peter asked.

Hannah glanced at him and saw Glenn – The Swindon Town Gazette's one-man video team – a few feet away, filming as much footage as he could get.

"I'm sorry," she said. She meant it too. Peter was a good man, despite being a little dogged with a story.

Peter shrugged and nudged her gently in the ribs. It was the only sign of affection he ever gave her. "You were right. I should have had more faith in them. Besides, the longer we can keep the competitors on the wrong track, the better, right?" He took a deep breath. "So, the Johns. They're really married, huh?" Peter seemed to have only just remembered that these people were more than a story for him to cover.

"Yeah, they really are."

"How long have you know?"

"A while," Hannah admitted.

He nodded. "You're a good kid."

Hannah hardly had a moment to breathe before her phone began to ring. She looked down at Rachel's number.

"This should be fun," she commented dryly to Peter before answering. "Hi Rachel."

"Hannah, sweetheart, the gig's up," Rachel said. "Some grunt reporter from your press room had the foresight to ring the hospital reception, and word's out on their location. They should be converging on you soon, darling. My boys got a bit of a head start and should be with you in a tick, just thought I'd give you a heads up. Professional courtesy or whatnot."

"A false lead was never going to hold for long," Hannah sighed. She would have liked it to last longer, but at least she had a statement and could get to John before any of the reporters.

"Anyway, darling, by my count you owe me the next favour. I'll be in touch!" Rachel hung up before Hannah had a chance to protest that she most certainly did not owe her a favour of any kind. Hannah huffed slightly and resisted the urge to curse her phone.

Sparing a final word to Peter, Hannah took off back to the front door of the hospital and bolted through. The lobby had cleared considerably, and John was easy to spot, sitting in conversation with Lee.

"John!" she called to him. They had precious little time to prepare.

"Hey, Han," John said. His eyes were glassy and there were lines of exhaustion in his face. She remembered with a pang that Bald John was still seriously injured, and she wished – for the sake of her friend – that she could spare him this next hurdle.

"I'm sorry, I held them off for as long as I could, but they're coming."

"Who are?" Lee asked, drawing her attention to him.

"The press."

* * *

* * *

John went rigid in his chair. The press. He could handle the press, right? Hannah was the press, and she wasn't so scary. He spoke to the press after most of their matches, and alright they were a little scary, but not too bad. Then he remembered his phone and the swarm of people trying to speak with him.

"They've been calling us too," he told Hannah. "My phone's overrun."

Hannah nodded. "I was worried about that, so I made a contingency plan." She ducked into her bag and pulled out a pair of mobile phones. They were chunky and looked a couple of years behind modern technology. "They're disposable," Hannah explained, handing them to John. "I've got one each for you and Bald John and put a basic amount of credit on them. Use them for now until you have a chance to buy new phone plans."

He accepted them uncertainly. "Thanks… that's really thoughtful. I'll pay you back…" Hannah waved off his promise as though she'd never heard anything more ridiculous.

"I've also forwarded your current numbers to my mobile. The phone company said it could take an hour or two to kick in, but I'll filter your calls for you and send anyone important onto your new number." John tried to thank her again, but she carried on speaking. He supposed time was of the essence. "The press, though. They're your biggest concern, and they're on their way. Is Bald John camera ready?"

"I don't… I don't really know what that means," John stammered, "but I don't think so. He's in X-rays."

Again Hannah nodded. The look on her face was as though she was doing complicated mathematics in her mind. "Okay," she said at length, "then I'm sorry, but you'll have to do this yourself. I made a couple of different drafts, just in case. Here." She reached back into her bag again and pulled out a purple file folder, which she rifled through. Removing a single sheet of paper, she handed it to him. John read it carefully. Bits of it, he noticed, had been scratched through and hastily re-written in Hannah's neat handwriting.

_For anyone who's still unclear, please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Other John Green and I'm a striker for the Swindon Town Swoodilypoopers football club. I am twenty-four years old, I have been playing with the club for two years, and I have been happily married to my fellow co-striker, Bald John Green, for just over a year._

_First, we would like to say that we are deeply grateful to the support and love that has been shown by our teammates and the fans of Swindon Town. The news of our marriage will surely have come as a shock to many, but we're so thrilled to finally be able to share our love with our teammates, friends, and supporters. It is a relief to be able to greet all of you now, without any pretence._

_However, the fact that John and I felt the need to keep our relationship a secret for the past two years is a sad reminder of the time we live in, and the pervasive culture of intimidation, prejudice, and discrimination that currently runs rampant through the football community. We hope that our happiness can, in some small way, help to break down harmful stereotypes and increase acceptance of all people in the sporting world._

"What is this?" John asked when he'd finished reading.

"What do you think? It's your statement to the press."

"I've already made a statement to the press,"

"This is your official statement."

"What's the difference?"

"This one was written by someone who knows what they're doing."

John chuckled softly. "Fair enough. Thanks, Han. It's… it's really good."

It was good. It was well written, and John knew it ticked all of the public relationships boxes. He certainly could not have come up with such a polished speech on his own. Something about it made him uncomfortable, though. It just all felt so political.

"Can I read it?" Lee asked. He pulled the piece of paper from John's hand before he had a chance to respond.

Lee chuckled as he read it. "Are you thrilled to be able to share your love with us, OJ?"

John blushed. "I am, actually," he muttered.

"Aww, such a softie!" Lee cooed.

"Stuff it, Lee," Hannah admonished him affectionately. She was blushing too. He obediently fell silent as he finished reading.

Movement from outside caught John's eye and drew his gaze towards the entrance. Large white vans were parked out front that had not been there before, and people were piling out of them. Camera men and sound guys were setting up recording equipment, while reporters checked their hair or spoke into cameras. A few were even trying to film them through the glass. He shuddered and looked away.

"So I have to read this to the press?"

"If you're up for it?" Hannah asked.

John didn't see that he had much of a choice, so he nodded and stood up. He ignored the exhausted head rush that momentarily crashed into him and took the piece of paper from Lee.

"Do I need to have this memorized?" he asked.

"No, but try not to look at it too much." Hannah put a hand on his arm, just above the elbow. For someone so small, she had a remarkably strong grip. "Are you okay to do this?"

John gave a half-way shrug that did nothing to ease Hannah's grip or the look of concern on her face. "Yes," he said, with greater assurance. She still looked unsure, but released John's arm and stepped back.

"We're right here, mate," Lee said, clasping a hand on John's opposite shoulder.

John was so tired of thanking people, so he just nodded and stepped forward, towards the front doors of the hospital. The noise that greeted him when he stepped outside was immense, but he refused to cower. He could do this.

Clearing his throat and calling out once or twice for attention was enough to quiet the crowd. With only the occasional stutter, he got through the statement Hannah had given him. As soon as he'd finished, the questions came pouring in. All of them were shouted one on top of the other that John could barely hope to hear them, let alone answer.

"How important is it for you to be a role model?"

"Do you regret keeping your relationship a secret?"

"Why did you decide to come out now?"

"Are you hoping to be a trailblazer for the gay rights movement?"

"Would you encourage other closeted players to come forward?"

"What's been your experience with homophobia?"

"Will you be arguing in favour of equal marriage rights?"

John blushed furiously under the force of such intimate, invasive, and entirely unsolicited questions. He'd never thought about his role as an activist, or some kind of political statement-maker. He hadn't gotten into a relationship with Bald John because he wanted to break down stereotypes, or highlight unequal marriage law, or increase the visibility of homophobia in competitive sports. All he'd ever wanted was to play football and be with the man he loved. All of a sudden everything seemed so much more complicated.

He locked eyes with Hannah. She had been watching him carefully, waiting to see if he wanted to try answering any of their questions. The panic he was feeling must have shown on his face, because she jumped into action.

"Alright you lot!" she shouted. "Other John needs to get back inside for an update on his husband's condition –" A flurry of noise cut Hannah off, so she doubled her volume to be heard over them. "I'm sure all of your questions will be answered in due course. Thanks very much!"

Instantly Hannah turned around and had her arms firmly around John's shoulders. Without a word, she manhandled him back inside like a bodyguard.

John's hands were shaking. He stumbled back towards the seats in the corner of the waiting room, deliberately picking a section out of sight of the reporters. Lee sat down across from him, and Hannah beside Lee. "I won't receive an update on John's condition for at least another hour," he said.

"Well, no need for the piranhas outside to know that, right?" Lee said with his usual bracing smile. John tried to smile back, but the muscles in his face twitched and refused to work properly.

"Piranhas, dear?" Hannah said, raising an eyebrow. "I'm glad to hear you have such a high opinion of the football press corps."

Lee bounced up in his seat to wrap both arms around Hannah in a sideways hug. She ended up curled into his side, despite the armrest between them.

"Lovely piranhas," Lee clarified, mussing her hair, "very pretty, intelligent piranhas, who have a respectable and admirable role in the world of professional sports."

"And don't you forget it," Hannah laughed.

* * *

Hannah and Lee stuck around to keep John company for nearly two hours while they waited. When the nurse came to fetch John at last, they left him to it. He hugged each of them in turn and thanked them for what felt like the millionth time. They waved off all his thanks with identical disregard for any imposition they had been put through.

They were about to leave, when Hannah let out a high-pitched noise of excitement. "I nearly forgot!" she said, "I've got something for you."

John was about to protest, but she was already pulling a small parcel from her bag. It was wrapped in red paper and finished with an immaculate bow made from gold ribbon.

"What is this?"

"It's a present. Actually, it's really late."

The paper fell to the floor as John unwrapped his present. He turned it around in his hands once, just to take it in. The picture frame was made from a dark mahogany, identical to the wood of John's piano. Inside the frame, against a thin white mount, was the photograph that Hannah had taken at the end of their wedding. In their matching black tuxedos, the Johns stood together in the foreground with their backs to the camera. Their hands were linked together, John's head resting on Bald John's shoulder. The pitch was laid out in front of them as it had looked on the evening they got married. The tea lights filled the photograph with pools of light and strange, wonderful shadows.

"Oh, Hannah…"

"Well," she shrugged. "I figured you wouldn't be able to put it on your mantle piece or anything until you came out, and it really deserved to be on display. So I just thought I'd hang on to it, you know, until…"

John didn't let her finish. He just enveloped her in yet another hug.

* * *

After Bald John had finished his tests and the doctors had a chance to go through them, they categorically agreed that he would need surgery. It was promptly scheduled for two days later. Rather than risk moving and making the injury worse, the doctors – possibly at Manager John's insistence – weren't letting Bald John leave the hospital before then. This left John to anxiously fidget his way around the small hospital room for two days. Hannah had taken their spare key and picked up some things from home for them, and John was fully prepared to hunker down with Bald John for the duration.

It took less than a day for Bald John to insist that John went back to practice. He had just finished fluffing Bald John's pillows for the third time when Bald John had enough.

"John," he said, "doesn't practice start in ten minutes?"

"Coach has given me a few days out so I can take care of you."

"That was nice of him, but wouldn't you rather be at practice?"

John paused mid-way through pouring Bald John a fresh glass of water. "What do you mean?"

"I just… you hate hospitals, John."

This was certainly true. John did hate hospitals, and he was already stir-crazy after only a few hours of keeping Bald John company. "I don't mind," he insisted.

"But we've got the match against Sheffield Wednesday tomorrow." There was a debating tone in Bald John's voice now. This wasn't just a conversation, this was Bald John trying to trying to convince him of something.

"John," he said slowly, drawing Bald John's eyes to his, "do you want me to leave?"

"No, of course not!" He paused for a moment. John waited for him to finish. "You're kind of stressing me out."

John chuckled softly in apology. "I'm sorry. Of course I know everything will be fine. I just get… anxious. I want to be here for you, though. I don't want you to feel like you're going through this alone."

An endearing smile spread across Bald John's face. "I love you for that, but you and I both know that you'd be better off putting your nervous energy into tomorrow's match, as opposed to beating my pillows into submission."

It took some more convincing, but eventually John relented. He really would rather be at practice. At practice, he could focus on something other than Bald John's impending surgery, his impossibly long road to recovery, and how they would get through it. At least at practice he could do something.

* * *

He was running late by the time he arrived at the County Ground parking lot and paid for his taxi, but he thought Manager John would probably understand.

"Thanks, mate," John shouted to the taxi driver as he sprinted towards the team entrance.

As soon as the crashing of the door announced John's entrance, all conversation inside the locker room died. The air was thick with tension as all eyes turned to John. He couldn't be sure, but it seemed as though some kind of heated exchange might have been taking place between some of the players. A few of them – the boys from the B-team, in particular – were glaring mutinously around the room. John's stomach twisted into a knot when he took this in.

"What are you doing here?" Fitz asked, though not unkindly. "I thought Coach gave you the day."

"He, uh, he did." John was still painfully aware that every single player in the locker room was looking at him. "I wanted to be here."

"Trouble in paradise, already?" Ginger Rampage asked.

John's eyes flicked over to him. He studied everything about Ginger's posture and expression. There was nothing out of the ordinary. It occurred to John that Ginger might have said the same thing if he'd been gently teasing Voluptuous about Alice, or Lee about Hannah. Was this a usual amount of banter, or was it thinly veiled disgust? John had no idea, but trying to decipher it was giving him a headache.

He was saved the trouble of answering when Manager John's office door opened and Patrick, Manager John, and a third man John didn't recognize exited the office. The third man was wearing a crisp, brand new set of training gear and had the wide-eyed terror of the new kid in class. His brown eyes darted nervously around the room before landing on John. The kid looked at him with wary uncertainty, as though he thought John might have a contagious illness of some kind.

"Boys," Manager John called their attention. "This is Parry, he's on loan from MK Dons for now, but we're hoping to be able to find a place for him. Let's go show him what a Swoodilypooper practice looks like."

"Yes, coach!" the team chorused.

"I'll go get your paperwork sorted, Parry. You can sign everything when you're done practice. Boys, I leave you in Patrick's care."

John thought he caught an edge of something in Manager John's voice when he said Patrick's name, but he couldn't pinpoint what it was exactly. He sounded almost reluctant. As he crossed the room to exit through the same door John had just entered from, he briefly caught John's eye, gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder as he passed, and then he was gone.

"Right lads! And Other John," Patrick began speaking. John flinched. A ripple of tension passed through the room, but Patrick ploughed on as though he hadn't said anything out of the ordinary. "Big match tomorrow! Let's get down to it."

"Yes, coach." The team's reply was noticeably more subdued than when they had responded to Manager John's similar rally just moments before. Even so, they obediently followed him out of the tunnel and onto the pitch.

Parry was looking at John again. "Are you the one everyone's been talking about?" he asked as John rapidly changed into his kit.

"I wouldn't know, I suppose you'd have to ask everyone who's been talking," he replied, midway through pulling on his jersey. Parry frowned at him in confusion. "Probably," John clarified.

"You're the gay one, then? The one who's married to the other John?"

"I'm the Other John," John replied glibly. Parry's confused frown intensified. John sighed. He already felt deeply uncomfortable; he may as well give the boy the answers he wanted. "Yes. I'm Other John, I'm married to Bald John, the one who just got injured." How often was he going to have to have this conversation? He didn't like it.

"Right, okay." The look of concern was back on Parry face, like he thought John was sick with something.

"Come on," John said, "you're already late for your first practice. Patrick likes to give laps to late people, let's get out there."

* * *

Patrick did end up giving them laps. He also gave them suicide drills, one-touch drills, and endless pass-shoot drills. He handed out penalty laps for touching more than once during one-touch drills, for not fully hitting the line during the suicide drills, and even for missing a shot in the pass drills. Everyone was run ragged within half an hour. Everyone except Fat Lucas, who could only watch as the rest of the team was put through more than their fair share of paces. For his part, John was so exhausted that it was all he could do to remain standing and resist the very strong temptation to lie down on the grass and not move for a few hours.

When Parry was awarded another lap for failing to catch a pass from Cteve, Fat Lucas seemed to lose his patience. "What is all this about, eh?" John heard him scold Patrick.

"I don't know what you mean," Patrick replied curtly.

"You bloody well do," Lucas shot back. "The boys are dead on their feet!"

"We're going to be a Premiership side soon. We can't afford to carry on like the laughing stock club everyone thinks we are."

"What are you on about?" Fat Lucas was shouting now. Cuthbert and Beef Stock, who had been mid-way through their drill, stopped to listen.

"You think we're not?" Patrick shot back, his voice ringing clear across the pitch. "Please. We're the side that's so shit our starting forwards are a pair of fags! As if we weren't already a big enough fucking joke of a team. I'm surprised we're even allowed to continue as a professional side. This is a game for men. I don't think they allow fairies to play."

John's legs were shaking. He needed to sit down. There weren't any chairs on the pitch, so he collapsed to the ground, not even caring how it might have looked to the rest of the team. He thought he might throw up, right there on the field. He closed his eyes, absurdly thinking that might help.

The sound of a fist connecting resoundingly with flesh forced John's eyes open again. He'd been so distracted with his own plight, that he hadn't even noticed the rest of the team's reaction to Patrick's little speech. Unsurprisingly, Lee looked livid, but he wasn't alone. John was surprised to see that the whole team, even the ones he did not consider close friends, looked furious. It was Fat Lucas' response, though, that took John the most by surprise. He'd been the one to punch Patrick. Fat Lucas, who had always been close with Patrick, was shaking out his right hand and glaring down at his friend. The cold anger that John had seen only hints of during Swoodilypooper therapy was in full force. Their usually jovial, easy-going, reliable keeper was gone. In his place stood a tall, looming brute of a man. His size was suddenly imposing and dangerous. Patrick shoved himself back onto his feet, but there was fear edging his eyes.

"Luke…"

"Sod off, Patrick," Fat Lucas said. His tone brokered no argument. "Now. When Manager John asks, I'll explain why we need to hire a new assistant coach. He'll understand."

John stood up. His feet were feeling stronger under him now. "You don't have to do this," he said to Fat Lucas. "Really, it doesn't–"

"So help me, OJ, if you try to say it doesn't matter I'll punch you next. It does matter. This isn't just about you. It's about being a Swoodilypooper. Everything Manager John has taught us, the men he expects us to be, that matters." All around Fat Lucas, the rest of the team was nodding their assent.

John fell silent and watched as Patrick began to step away from them. His gaze was casting about wildly, as though trying to find an ally. Even the boys from the B-team, who John could have sworn weren't impressed with John's romantic inclinations, remained with the rest of the team. Declaring defeat, Patrick turned and stormed back towards the tunnel.

"Good riddance!" Cuthbert shouted at his retreating back.

For a few moments, the boys looked at one another, unsure how to continue.

"OJ," Cteve said suddenly. John looked over at him.

"Cteve?" he replied warily.

"I wanted to ask you… you know that cross-play that you and Bald John seemed to have mastered? The one where you take the through ball up from Lee on the centre-line, and feed it down the side?"

"Sure, yeah."

"Could we run through it a couple of times? I'd like to give it a go at tomorrow's match if you're up for it?"

A slow smile spread across John's features. "Let's go."

Fat Lucas took over practice for the remainder of the afternoon. Lucas, it turned out, had a natural coaching style. He was sharp-eyed and blunt with his words, but always hit the nail on the head.

Despite everything, they left the pitch that afternoon feeling pretty good about their chances against Sheffield Wednesday.

* * *

John offered to spend the night at the hospital, but Bald John flatly refused, insisting that John needed to rest if he was playing a match the next morning. So John returned to their empty home and curled up in Bald John's bed for the night.

The buzzing of their alarm clock woke him early the next morning. It was a three hour drive from Swindon to the away match in Sheffield, which meant leaving at the ungodly hour of eight in the morning. Flatly refusing to get up before the sun had risen, John turned off his alarm, turned over, and went back to sleep.

A separate alarm, this one from the other bedroom, went off fifteen minutes later.

"Damn you, Bald John!" John cursed to the empty room.

He forgot that Bald John liked to set two alarms on match days. The man, obsessively punctual as he was, also liked to set all of the alarms for all of the match days in the calendar in advance. Just in case he forgot to turn on the alarm the night before. Which of course he never did, because he was obsessively punctual.

John shuffled himself out of bed and down the hall to turn off the second alarm. Forced to admit that he was awake, he went about getting his stuff together for the match.

Despite getting out of bed in good time, he still ended up behind schedule as he was preparing to leave the house. When he finally stepped outside, he was supposed to have been at the bus five minutes ago.

As soon as he opened the door, he was accosted by a sudden barrage of camera flashes. He could barely see through the lights, but thought there must have been at least a dozen people, all wielding cameras or recording equipment, outside his front door.

"John!"

"John!"

"John!"

Idiotically, John's first thought was how all of these people he had never seen before knew his name. His second thought was how they knew where he lived. His final thought was why they cared.

Then his mind kicked back into focus and he slammed the door shut again. He could still hear the reporters on the other side of the thick oak door, calling to him. Leaning the back of his head against the door, he closed his eyes and tried to think. He'd known what he was getting himself into. This was an unavoidable part of being interesting to the press. Rationally, he should have expected this. But he was afraid and alone and he couldn't figure out what he was supposed to do.

He wanted to call Bald John and ask what he was supposed to do. He wanted him back home. He didn't want to do all of this alone. Even so, John fought the urge to call Bald John. His husband was in pain enough as it was, and John refused to burden him with more of it, particularly since there was nothing he could do to help.

He considered calling Hannah, but again thought better of it. She had been working non-stop ever since his idiotic announcement to control the story as much as was within her ability. She had taken it upon herself to become the Johns' unofficial PR manager. He mentally added it to the upsettingly long list of amazing things she had done for him without ever asking for something in return. So, no. He couldn't – he refused – to ask her for yet another favour.

He eventually tried calling Ashley, if for no other reason than to hear the sound of a reassuring voice. The phone rang through to voicemail. He supposed it wouldn't have done any good to speak with her anyway. She was miles away and in no position to help him beyond an offer of sympathy. Besides which, he knew that even she had been receiving phone calls from reporters asking for a 'statement from the family.' He thought with a pang of guilt that she might have stopped answering her phone entirely as a result.

At his wit's end, John resigned himself to the idea that he would have to call a Swoodilypooper for help. He thumbed through his unfamiliar phone and found the contact he was looking for. His hand was shaking so badly that it took three attempts to dial the number.

He held the phone to his ear and listened to the distant ringing. It clicked when the call was received on the other side.

"Leeeeeeroy here!" Lee sang through the phone. John could hear the sounds of the rest of the team through the phone. He must already be on the bus.

"Lee?" John cursed the quaver in his voice, "I, umm… I need –"

"OJ?" Leeroy's tone shifted immediately to one of concern, "what's up man? Don't take this the wrong way or anything, but you sound freaking terrible."

"Yeah," John didn't have the energy to be insulted, "I think I might need some help."

"What's up?" Lee repeated.

"There are reporters outside my house, and I – I don't know how to get to the stadium."

"Dude, just barrel through them! Ignore them and run man, we need you at the bus pronto."

"I – I can't."

John felt like a child. He would have been much less self-conscious if he had been having the same conversation with Bald John, Hannah, or Ashley. As it was, he hated feeling vulnerable around a teammate. Especially one he held in such high regard. But John had not been giving Lee enough credit. He seemed to understand without needing any further clarification that John was afraid.

"Can't you call Hannah? I'm sure she could get rid of them for you."

"I don't want to bother her," John tried and failed to keep his tone light. As though he wasn't suffering a mild panic attack.

"Alright man, stay put. We'll be there in a minute."

True to his word, John heard the aggressive sounds of a blaring car horn just a few minutes later. In that time, he hadn't moved from his crouched position against the front door. He pushed himself up now though, and looked out one of the small windows next to the door. The Swoodilypooper bus was swinging its way down John's street, honking incessantly.

It came to a stop in front of his house, and a dozen Swoodilypoopers poured out of it. Armed with their duffle bags, they formed two human walls, creating a clear path from John's door to the bus.

"Coming through!" Lee was shouting. "Very important Swoodilypooper is urgently needed to kick Sheffield Wednesday's collective backside. You can quote me on that one, Olly!" Lee called, pointing at a reporter John didn't know. He opened the door when Lee arrived at the top of his front walk. "Alright, buddy?" Lee said with such casual grace that they could have been meeting for a pint at the giraffe and not fighting off a small horde of journalists.

"Shall we get a move on, or what?" Cteve shouted from mid-way down the lawn, where he was using his bag to block someone's camera.

John smiled despite himself. "Yeah. We've got a match to win."

* * *

Win they most certainly did. Despite the stress of Bald John injury, Patrick's vitriol, and the press' tenacity, nothing could dampen John's overwhelming feeling of love and acceptance. The team had come together and then some. They had stuck by him when he'd given them every reason to resent him, and they'd done all of it like it was nothing. Like it was just the obvious thing to do.

The love John had been shown spurred him to new heights in his skill as a player. It was as though he'd been carrying a heavy chain around his neck for years – his whole life, even – and he had finally taken it off. It felt spectacular.

His practice with Cteve paid off when, 21 minutes into the game, Cteve took a sharp run down the left side of the pitch toward the Sheffield goal. Just when it looked like he might be poised to score, he pivoted and fed the ball back to John at the top of the box. With one touch, John had hammered it home into the back of the net. He might have been reading too much into it, but it felt to him like a sign of faith. Cteve was nothing if not always keen to prove himself, but he'd given up a chance to score in favour of passing the ball to John.

In the following 24 minutes John scored three more times, and each time, Cteve was there to embrace him like a brother in arms, with unreserved affection. Even Parry, whose position on the 'gay thing' had been murky, joined in with their celebrations.

When the final whistle blew, ending their match with a resounding 7 – 1 victory, John grinned at their newest addition to the squad. Parry's hair was slick with sweat, his cheeks were flushed a deep crimson, and he looked utterly spent, but his eyes were flashing with life.

"I've never experienced anything like that," he said, awe-struck, as they walked off the pitch together.

"It's quite something, isn't it?" John agreed.

"I don't get it. I've played loads of matches before."

The look on Parry's face reminded John vividly of how he'd felt after his own first match with the Swoodilypoopers – the elation, the thrill. It was like he'd played every match prior to then with a blindfold on.

"You're a Swoodilypooper now," he pointed out. "It's different."

"Yeah," Parry breathed. "I think I'm getting that."

John whooped with exhausted laugher and looped a friendly arm around Parry's shoulder. Parry didn't twitch, or frown, or pull away. He just let out a laugh of his own and walked with John into the tunnel.

For the first time since the whole mess started, John thought things might just work out alright.

* * *

The following few weeks saw some ups and down for the Johns. First and foremost, Bald John's surgery went off without a hitch. After proclaiming that he would be off the pitch for at least forty days, the doctors sent him on his way. In point of fact, they seemed pretty keen to be rid of him, since a small contingent of reporters had been staking out the hospital for the duration of Bald John's stay.

The Johns returned home and focused their joint attention on new strategies for the team's upcoming matches, and how to best to expedite Bald John's recovery. In keeping with his nature, Bald John took the injury with his customary good grace. From his first day at home, he stood and walked around the living room for exactly the amount of time prescribed by his physiotherapist. Then he sat and rested his leg for exactly the amount of time prescribed by his physiotherapist. Truth be told, his strict adherence to every command passed down to him annoyed John a little, or at least added to his inferiority complex. He couldn't help remembering his own insatiable desire to push his body as far as it could possibly go when he'd been injured. He'd had this idea that if he could pretend his ankle was fine, it would somehow mend itself from sheer force of will. Bald John, predictably, was under no such delusion. It was no surprise when he began to recover much more rapidly than John had.

On Day Two of Bald John's injury, John had his first encounter with the paparazzi. A man with a camera and cap set low over his eyes took a photo of John as he was going for his morning jog around Queen's Park. John noticed him almost immediately and found the whole thing utterly unnerving. He cut his run short that morning and returned home quicker than he would have normally.

The following day, his picture was in a sidebar on the Heat website. John followed the link Hannah had sent him and spent a few minutes staring at the photo. Bald John leaned over his shoulder to examine the picture.

"You look good," he said with a cheeky smile.

"You think?" John asked. He swivelled around to peck Bald John a small kiss. "It's not a little weird?"

"Oh sure, it's plenty creepy," Bald John agreed, "but it seems relatively harmless. It's not as though we didn't know we'd be getting ourselves into this when we became so interesting."

John shrugged, though he wasn't sure he had been expecting this at all.

He continued to stare at the photo and small caption about 'famous footballer, John Green' for a few more minutes. Mostly, he was torn between feeling unsettled and nonplussed. Why would anyone pay money for a picture of him jogging around a park? If they wanted to see him running around, they could just watch The Football League Show. What made the fact that he was in a park any more interesting? It didn't make any sense.

* * *

On Day Fifteen, both of the Johns were at home sharing a lazy Sunday afternoon. Rain lashed unobtrusively against the window of the living room. Despite John's loud protestations, Manager John had insisted that he rest occasionally too, so while the team was playing an away match in Crystal Palace, the Johns had the afternoon to themselves. As had become a custom of theirs, John was playing an absent, delicate tune on the piano while Bald John read the newspaper and performed his prescribed knee stretches.

Bald John had been holding up remarkably well, though even he had his moments of restlessness and frustration. That afternoon was one of those moments. He put down the newspaper and turned on the TV. The noise from the cooking programme that flared to life clashed so horribly with the piano that John was forced to stop playing. Within a few minutes Bald John tired of that and turned it off. He picked up one of the new books John had given him as 'get well soon' gifts, read a page or two, then shut it again.

"Are you alright?" John asked, moving over from the piano to sit by his side on the sofa.

"I'm fine." Bald John sighed and slumped back into the leather cushions. "I'm just so bored!"

Without a word, John reached out and wrapped a hand around the back of Bald John's neck. He traced gentle, soothing patterns with his fingers against the base of Bald John's head. John vividly recalled the frustration that accompanied a serious injury, and felt terrible that he couldn't do more to ameliorate his situation. Still, the small comforts weren't nothing. Bald John closed his eyes and leaned into John's touch with a contented sigh.

When the doorbell rang a moment later, they both instinctively tensed. For the first few days after they came out, the press had tried ringing on their doorbell to coax them into participating in interviews. Just as they were quietly debating whether or not to answer, Hannah's voice could be heard from outside.

"It's me, fools! Open the door! It's chucking it down out here, and this bag is really heavy."

Perplexed, John nevertheless vaulted himself over the back of the couch and went to answer the door. Hannah was standing on his front step with a mail sack that would have made Father Christmas envious slung over her shoulder.

She let out of a grunt of effort. "Ta, John. I really didn't fancy lugging this around any more than I have already." Without waiting for an invitation inside, she pushed past him and down the hall. Her massive bag nearly knocked over the hall table, which John just barely caught before it toppled over.

"What is all that?" he asked, following her into the living room.

"It's for you," she explained. "Hiya, John," she added to Bald John, who was staring at her from over the back of the couch.

"Hi Hannah," he said, clearly a little taken aback by her sudden presence in their home. "Shouldn't you be at the Crystal Palace match?"

Hannah nodded. "I'm heading there now, I just wanted to drop this off first. I figured with you both at home during a match day, you're probably just about ready to pull your hair and/or moustache out in boredom, am I right?" Neither of them contradicted her. "Right, well, I've come to alleviate that boredom," she continued, triumphantly swinging the sack over her shoulder and dropping it onto the carpet.

"What is that?" John asked again.

"Open it," Hannah urged, stepping back.

Obediently, John stepped forward and untied the rope holding together the coarse mail sack. Inside was a mountain of post. Handwritten letters, bags, parcels, and envelopes of all shapes and sizes. John picked out a few and read their address labels. Every single one of them was addressed either to Bald John, to him, or to them both.

"Wow," he breathed. John dragged the bag over to Bald John so he too could peer inside. When he'd also had a chance to inspect the contents, he let out a low whistle.

"It's all for us?" he asked.

Hannah nodded, smiling at them.

"Where did it all come from?"

"From your P.O. box," she explained, as though that was perfectly obvious.

"We have a P.O. box?" John asked.

"Sure, it's listed on your website."

"We have a website?" This was a bewildering turn of events.

"Yes, of course," Hannah said. "I set it up for you the day after Bald John's injury."

John shook his head in on-going amazement at Hannah's ability to handle things that would never have even occurred to him. He was also sure that hereally didn't want to visit their website.

"So you're saying that this is… fan mail?" Bald John said.

"I hope so. For the most part, yes," Hannah confirmed. "I tried to take out any of the ones that looked like they might be a bit… distasteful." John shuddered, imagining what the distasteful ones might have looked like. "Anyway, I thought it would make a nice project for you, while you're recovering, John."

"Thanks," Bald John said with a smile. "That's really wonderful."

Hannah beamed at them both, but quickly made her excuses. John asked if she wanted to join them in reading some of the post, but she firmly declined.

"No can do, I've got a match to get to! Besides, they're for you," she insisted, waving a hand animatedly between them. "This should be something for just the two of you."

* * *

The fan mail turned out to be a massive project. The Johns sat down together to go through each one individually and were still at it several hours later. Evening descended outside, and they only noticed when John had to turn on the living room lights to continue reading. Some were simple letters of support. _"Thank you for being so brave." "I'm so proud to be a Swindon Town supporter." "You boys are an inspiration."_ Reading each one felt like taking a big gulp of tea. Some people sent them artwork, or wedding gifts, or homemade Swoodilypooper clothing. All of it was incredible and kind, but John was less sure what to do with it. It felt wrong, somehow, to keep gifts from strangers. Bald John agreed with him that it was odd, but he disagreed when John suggested that maybe they should give it away.

"They've given these things to us because they want us to have them. It would be ungrateful to return or re-gift them, wouldn't it?"

John wasn't sure that giving things to charity was the same as re-gifting them, so they agreed to put a pin in that discussion.

Amongst the generally kind and simple messages of support, there were a few truly remarkable letters.

"Look at this one," Bald John breathed. He leaned against John and held the letter he was reading in front of them so they could read it together.

 _Dear Colleagues,_ the letter began,

_I've spent every minute since I first heard about your announcement trying to write this letter._

_I'm not so good with words, but this is important. I know better than most what you've been going through. I've been playing Premier League football for nearly a decade. And I've known I was gay for much longer than that. I used to think the two things could never go hand in hand, that if I wanted to play football for a living, I would have to live with lies and secrets, shame and back alleys._

_I had resigned myself to this, until last month, when hope burst into my life for the first time in years._

_I don't think I'm as brave as you are. I don't know if I ever will be. But I just wanted to say thanks. If not for me, then for the generation of players who come after us. Maybe they, at least, won't be bound by the same constraints that we have been._

_All my love,_

_A brother in arms._

There was no return address. The Johns read it three more times, arms wrapped firmly around one another.

They were composing replies when midnight passed and Day Sixteen began.

* * *

In the month and a half that it took for Bald John's injury to heal, the Swoodilypoopers suffered a significant reversal of fortune. For the first time in years, they began losing more matches than they won. They were knocked out of the European competition in November before they'd even managed to get their foot in the door, and they were battered from pillar to post by teams as weak as Nott's County. They were lucky that the FA cup matches were scheduled for the spring, or they would certainly have been knocked out of that too. The truth was, they just weren't the same team without Bald John on the pitch with them. Everyone was impatient for his return.

The recovery was exactly as slow as all the doctors had promised, though. December had rolled in before Bald John was even able to tackle the walk up the hill to the County Ground. His knee was in a brace, and he was limping, but still in good spirits. It was Day Twenty-Six. He was still weeks away from participating, but he could certainly sit, watch, and lend his support to the team.

Recently, the majority of that support had been behind the scenes. Bald John had taken to sitting with Manager John for long stretches of time, acting as a sounding board for his new strategies and tactics. Much as he wanted to help, however, Bald John was no replacement for a real Assistant Coach. He was serving as a stop-gap measure. Once he was fit to play again, he'd need to put his efforts back into winning matches on the front lines. And Manager John would need to find a permanent replacement for Patrick. According to Hannah – who, John was only just beginning to discover, had sources everywhere – he'd been approached by a few people interested in the job, but had turned them all away. John suspected that Manager John felt betrayed by Patrick's actions and wasn't keen to take on another right-hand man who might ultimately let him down.

A winter wind whipped around their ears as the Johns walked hand-in-hand towards the stadium for a morning practice. They were strolling up the hill at a much more sedate pace than usual to accommodate Bald John's injury. Bald John was grinning like a boy on Christmas, as though the mere presence of John's hand in his was the greatest victory he could have hoped for. It warmed John's heart.

A noise from across the street drew John's attention. A lone paparazzo was taking their photograph. John tried to pull his hand away, but Bald John's grip tightened.

"There's someone taking our picture," John observed through the side of his mouth.

"I know," Bald John replied, "he's been following us for a few minutes. Let him."

"Fine." John shrugged. "On your head be it when we end up on the back page of _The Metro_ beside a photo of Alex Gerrard picking her kids up from school or something."

Bald John chuckled, but still made no effort to deter the paparazzo. They carried on walking for a few minutes. Eventually, defeated by the cold, the photographer peeled off from them and headed back down the hill.

"So," John said after the man had left. He purposefully swung their joined hands for added effect. "I've been meaning to ask you about something."

Bald John looked over at him, his curiosity evidently piqued. "Oh?"

"Well it's just, with all our secrets our in the open, cards on the table, that kind of thing…" John hesitated and changed his mind. "Maybe now isn't the time to bring it up."

Bald John let out a noise of unmistakable exasperation. "You realise, don't you, that that's just about the most aggravating thing you could have said."

"I was thinking maybe we could revisit the moving to a bigger house idea." John let out in a rush. He'd been thinking for a while of not bringing it up with Bald John at all, and trying to surprise him on Christmas instead, but Bald John didn't think much of surprises. John suspected he wouldn't appreciate big life changes being made on his behalf.

"Really?" Bald John grinned even wider. He abandoned John's hand in favour of wrapping his arm around John's lower back instead. With a gentle tug of his arm, he pulled John closer. John leaned unconsciously against Bald John's side, before remembering his injury and easing off.

"We don't have to decide anything right now –" John began, but cut himself off when his mobile began to vibrate in his pocket, distracting him from his thought. Bald John felt it too, pressed as they were against one another as they walked. He leaned away to give John space to extract his phone.

John looked at the face of his shiny, unnecessarily high-tech, new mobile. 'Ashley Bennett calling' was written across the front. It took him four tries of poking desperately at it before he managed to answer the call.

"Hello?"

"Hey!" Ashley's voice sounded far away and muffled. She was clearly in a public place; he could hear noise all around her.

"Ash?" John spoke up. "Where are you?"

"I'm just in Tesco, doing my shopping. Listen John, have you seen this week's _Love It_?"

John laughed at the bizarre question. "Ashley, dear." He adopted his best faux upper-class accent. "I know you all think I'm terribly low brow, what with my lack of degree, my ruffian lifestyle, and generally poor taste in literature, but I have not quite fallen so low as to read _Love It._ " He dropped the accent. "Seriously though, do you think I pay the least bit of attention to _Love It_?"

The Johns reached the top of the hill and approached the entrance to the County Ground. With a subtle twitch of his wrist, Bald John indicated that they were, of course, late for practice. At least this time John thought he might be able to pin it on Bald John's currently slower-than-average walking speed.

"Maybe you should start, Stephen Fry," Ashley's tease was friendly, but there was a waspish undertone. She was angry about something.

John was intrigued, but they were nearly at the door to the locker room. "Ash, I've got to run. Can I ring you after practice?"

"No, John, listen!"

John was already hanging up before he noticed the urgency in her voice.

"You okay?" Bald John asked.

"Yeah, fine. That was just… odd. I'm not sure what she was on about, actually." He shrugged. There was an unsettling feeling in his stomach that he tried his best to ignore as they pushed their way through the locker room door. Bald John's arm fell from around John before they entered the room. Some habits were too deeply ingrained to ignore completely.

Half a dozen members of the team looked up when they entered. Cuthbert, John noticed, was smiling broadly at them. It was vaguely disconcerting. John moved over to his locker and started changing, in the hopes that his concerns were unfounded.

"So… OJ…" Cuthbert said a moment later in a tone was altogether far too casual. "Who's Alexander Martin?"

John's arms went slack and his boots clattered to the ground. Forgetting the value of a poker face, he turned around to face Cuthbert. "Why do you ask?"

Cuthbert tossed something, and a flurry of brightly coloured pages flew towards John. He caught the magazine deftly. Plastered on the cover of Love it was a photoshopped picture of John and Alexander. If John hadn't been prepared for it, he might not have recognized Alexander at all. It had been years since they'd last seen each other, and the man smiling out at him looked much older than the boy John had known at school. He was so intrigued by the picture of his old crush that it took him a minute to notice the headline. 'My Affair with a Sports Star.'

"Oh God," John groaned.

He flipped to the page indicated on the cover. In his entire life, John didn't think he and Alexander had ever taken a photo together, but the article held several more that had been spliced together to make it look as though they had. The article itself was written in the first person, as though Alexander had written it, though if he had, the two of them clearly remembered events very differently.

The first line, _'John Green (ne Bennett), was the love of my life…'_ was enough to convince John that he didn't want to read any further. Still, he couldn't help it. His eyes scanned the article ravenously. The story it painted was one of a torrid, passionate love affair that lasted most of their teenage years. He read the final line of the article with mounting incredulity. _'I can only hope that one day John remembers how great we were together and comes back to me.'_ John couldn't help it: he laughed.

"For crying out loud," he exclaimed, still laughing, "this article makes it sound like we had some kind of star-crossed romance!"

"You didn't?" Beef Stock asked, one eyebrow raised in amusement.

"We slept together once," John explained.

The team wolf-whistled and 'oooo'-ed like a gaggle of pre-teen girls. "OJ, you heartbreaker!" Ginger laughed, slapping him on the back.

John looked back down at the magazine, ignoring the team's jibes. The picture of the adult Alexander was still smiling up at him from the cover. According to the article he was now an aspiring actor. John tried and failed to recall his feelings of intimidation and inferiority he used to have when he used to look into the man's eyes. He could no longer recall what he'd found attractive or enticing about the man. He was just a man. Just as scared and lonely as John had been. And now, John mostly felt sad for him, that he was selling his story to a tabloid for a few quid.

Bald John quietly took the magazine from John's hand and read the article. His eyes flicked ceaselessly across the page until he finished reading. John looked over at him uncertainly. Bald John already knew the truth about Alexander. Surely this article didn't make any kind of difference, did it? Silently, fruitlessly, John wished his teammates would vanish in a puff of smoke so they could speak properly.

Instead, Cuthbert loped up to Bald John's other side and slipped his arm around Bald John's shoulder. "Not too jealous, I hope, Baldy? Would hate to think what marital strife between the two of you would do to us!"

"Like children in a sticky divorce!" Ginger chipped in.

"Yeah, don't let some pouncy little actor get between you, eh?" Lallana added.

"Yes, thank you all so much for your input," Bald John said in clipped, dry sarcasm. John's stomach sank, but he couldn't be sure whether Bald John was reacting to the article, or to the teases of his teammates.

If Bald John wasn't going to rise to their jibes, then the boys had little incentive to continue prodding at the issue. Within moments, they'd moved on to teasing Voluptuous for texting Alice from the locker room. When attention was no longer turned towards them, Bald John moved closer to John and gave him a timid, sympathetic smile. It was enough to lay John's concerns to rest.

"Are you alright?" Bald John asked so quietly that he was almost whispering. "I know you still have some… unresolved issues… surrounding your relationship with –"

"I'm fine!" John assured him hurriedly, still half-whispering. "Really, it doesn't bother me. If anything, I feel kind of sorry for him."

"Me too," Bald John agreed.

"Really?" John couldn't stop the sigh of relief from escaping his lips. "I thought you might have been… I don't know… Upset? Annoyed?" John hesitated. "…Jealous?"

Bald John raised an eyebrow and nailed John with his _you're-doing-that-thing-where-you-worry-about-stupid-stuff-for-no-reason_ look. John grinned and had to resist the urge to kiss him in the middle of the locker room. That would certainly have re-gained their teammates' attention.

A moment later Manager John emerged from his office and broke up their gossiping. "Alright boys, we've got a practice to get to."

* * *

Bald John was deemed 'fit to play' by his doctors on December 24th, 2009. Day Forty, right on the dot.

The mere sight of Bald John back in his number 9 jersey had been enough to send their coach dancing around the locker room in unabashed joy. "We've fasted," he began, skipping around the room excitedly.

"Coach -" Bald John tried to cut him off.

"We've been forced to toil on without you-"Manager John continued, unabashed.

"Really this isn't - "

"But now, after forty long days and forty long nights, you're back with us."

"Yes, coach."

"You understand how biblically resonant that is, don't you?"

The familiar crimson blush was flooding Bald John's ears. John could only grin at his husband's clear discomfort.

"Yes, I suppose there's a certain –" Bald John was half-way through admitting, when Manager John again cut him off.

"You know what this means, don't you?" he pressed, still grinning like a five-year-old who'd been fed too many sweets before bed.

"What does it mean, coach?" John asked enthusiastically, if for no other reason than to revel in the look of discomfort on the unflappable Bald John.

"It's a Christmas Miracle!" Manager John declared gleefully, bouncing on his toes.

A few of the boys – Lee, Cteve, Fitz and Cuthbert chief among them – applauded and cheered loudly. John suspected they too were enjoying the rare opportunity to wind Bald John up.

"Coach," Bald John sighed. There was a slight smile of appreciation tugging at the corner of his lips, but he continued speaking in sincere earnestness, "I'm fit to play, but I may not be… up to my previous standard." The look of concern on his face was enough to make John abandon his teasing and gently lay a hand on his forearm.

"No one does anything on a team alone," John reminded him, "and despite what Coach may say, no one expects miracles."

"Besides, you're not the only man on the pitch there, buddy," Lee said. "We'll pick up the slack till you're ready."

Bald John looked mildly comforted, if not altogether convinced. Even so, he managed a genuine smile with his next words. "Well, I've already waited forty days; I'd rather not wait another minute before getting back onto the pitch."

* * *

_Unrest among the Swoodilypoopers?_ _Article by Peter Carrigan_

_'Long-time members of the Swoodilypooper reserve team have expressed concerns about their future with the club. With the promotion of our beloved Swindon Town on the horizon, one might think that the locker room at the County Ground has been full of celebration. Not so, say sources within the team. The future remains uncertain for most club members, as it is not yet clear how many of them will be asked to stay with the team when it makes the esteemed jump into the Premier League. These boys, many of whom have been with the club since its days in League Two, may never get to see the fruits of their own labour. Some of them will never get to play a match of Premiership football. 'Stone Cold' Cteve with-a-C Austin went so far as to say that the only players guaranteed to be making the jump into the Premier League are the now world-famous married duo: Bald and Other John Green._

_"They're clearly monogamous because they won't play with anyone else,' he said in an exclusive statement to The Gazette…'_

The words caused a heavy weight to settle in the pit of John's stomach. The article continued from there, but John was seeing red and barely even able to finish reading. His coffee sat forgotten in front of him, slowly chilling in the morning air as he sat back in his chair at the kitchen table and took a deep breath. Running one hand agitatedly through his hair, he looked up when Bald John sauntered into the kitchen, freshly showered and looking altogether far too cheery for such an early hour of the morning.

"Have you seen this?" John couldn't keep the anger out of his voice as he watched his husband pour himself a cup of coffee.

"Seen what?" Bald John leaned against the kitchen counter, mug in hand.

Wordlessly John held up the Gazette, still open to the sports section. Bald John pushed himself off the counter and took the newspaper from John's outstretched hand. Coffee in one hand and the paper in the other, he silently read Cteve's interview. John watched him intently as his eyes – slightly narrowed in concentration – flicked across the newspaper. His face remained calm as he finished the article and handed it back. John accepted the paper and folded it back up, still looking at his husband to gauge any further response. Bald John quietly sat down at the kitchen table and leaned over to run a hand tenderly through John's puffed hair. John leaned into his husband's reassuring touch.

"Shit." John bit the word out, anger still threatening to overcome him. There were other emotions mixed in that he was trying his very best to ignore. But try as he might, something that felt uncomfortably close to betrayal was threatening to boil over.

"Do you think that's how they all see us?" Bald John asked quietly after a while.

John had been mulling over the exact same question since the moment he finished reading the stupid article. On the one hand, he thought that Cteve was probably just frustrated and blowing off some steam. He had probably been drinking with Peter and had been trying to make a dumb joke. Rationally, John knew that this was more than likely. However, another part of him could imagine whispered conversations between teammates – all of whom he loved like brothers – about the exclusivity of the Johns.

"I don't know," he finally answered.

"Cteve was probably just having a drink with Peter." Bald John put voice to John's own thoughts. He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself.

"Probably," John agreed. He didn't want to tell Bald John what he feared – that Cteve was expressing the concern and frustration felt by a lot of the Swoodilypoopers regarding their future with the club.

As they neared the end of their season in the Championship, a spot in the Premiership finally looked like it might become a reality. For the past month, this had been gradually taking a toll on the Swoodilypoopers. Members of the team had all reacted differently. Parry kept blinking and looking around in wide-eyed amazement, as though he wasn't sure what he'd done to land a spot on their team. Ginger had taken to wearing a permanent, self-satisfied smirk in every practice. Beef Stock had even set up a betting pool for how much they would beat Arsenal when they played them in the Premier League. Others, however, had adjusted less well to the situation.

Ultimately, there were no two ways around the fact that John and his husband were easily the two best scorers in the team. And though Manager John would have said that he loved all his Swoodilypoopers equally, he always demonstrated a particular fondness for the Johns. The sad truth was that Peter's Gazette article was right about one thing: some members of the team would never play Premiership football.

"We have to go," Bald John said quietly, glancing at the clock on the opposite wall. Slowly, the two Johns roused themselves from their stupor and managed to find their way out the door.

The April air was damp with misty rain as they walked the familiar route to the stadium, the pair of them quietly dreading the day to come. It wasn't clear how the rest of the team was feeling about their future, or whether they shared Cteve's sentiments. But what they knew for sure was that Manager John would not take this recent PR development lightly. He was bound to take Cteve's behaviour personally.

At three minutes past eight, they arrived at the entrance to the County Ground. John paused before going over the threshold, their entwined hands pulling Bald John to a halt alongside him. With a furtive look around the empty parking lot, John leaned over and pushed himself upwards to briefly catch the lips of his husband.

"Alright," he said. "Come on."

What greeted the Johns when they walked into the locker room (John deliberately walked a couple of paces behind his husband), was exactly as uncomfortable as they'd feared.

The buzz of conversation between Parry, Cuthbert, Voluptuous, and Ginger immediately died when they entered. Their three teammates caught each others' eyes briefly and then resumed getting kitted up for practice in silence.

"Listen, mates," Sir Cuthbert said after an awkward beat. Both Johns looked at Cuthbert's imploring face. "What Cteve said man, in the Gazette, it was bang out of order."

"Thanks, Cuthbert," Bald John gave a half smile.

"Only the thing is… he isn't half wrong, either," Ginger continued.

"Do any of you really think we aren't team players?" John asked, his voice more clipped and frustrated than he'd intended it to be. A few more teammates had entered the locker room, and all of them were looking awkwardly at the floor, ceiling, or their own fingernails. Anywhere, basically, except at John.

"It's not that," Voluptuous said. "We all know that you give everything you have to this club. We are not questioning your sportsmanship."

"Cteve was," John pointed out.

"He was wrong to do that." Voluptuous nodded. "But he was not wrong to point out the instability that many of us are feeling. We do not all have the same job security that you do, and some of us have families to consider."

Voluptuous was not the confrontational sort. John knew he wasn't saying any of this to start a fight or get them riled up; he was simply stating a fact. It was not the John's fault that their contracts had already been signed while the others had not. John was not responsible for this. That knowledge, however, did nothing to lessen the knot in his stomach.

"I'm sorry." Bald John's voice was soft and steeped in the same guilt that John was feeling. Neither of them had any comfort to offer, but they could try. "I know it's a terrible situation for you to still be asked to dedicate everything you have to the success of a team you may not even continue playing for. I wish I knew what to say."

"You don't have to say anything, Bald John." Manager John's firm voice called from the other side of the room. No one had noticed him enter from the tunnel. "This is the reality of playing professional football, boys," he continued. His voice was more measured than John had expected. He sounded sympathetic, but not apologetic; firm, but not angry. "It's not ideal, and I'm certainly not revelling in the changes that will need to happen to the club. But if you think this uncertainty means that I expect anything less than all of your devotion to this team, you are sorely mistaken. If you think this uncertainty means you can run your mouth off to your mates in the press –" he paused to nail Cteve with a sharp glare. "- Then you've got another thing coming."

John hadn't noticed Cteve enter, but he followed Manager John's gaze and saw him loitering at the back of the room. His sunglasses were firmly over his eyes despite the fact that he was indoors and it was raining outside.

"Sorry, coach," Cteve muttered.

Manager John shrugged. "It's not me you should be apologizing to." He heaved a heavy sigh. It was the first sign John had seen to suggest that their coach was feeling all the same stress and exhaustion that the rest of them were. "I expect you all on the pitch in ten minutes." He addressed the room at large, evidently deciding he had nothing left to say to Cteve.

Manager John had never been a huge fan of Cteve's extracurricular activities, but this latest development seemed to have cemented Cteve in his poor opinion. It was a shame, John thought. Cteve could be inconsiderate and self-centred, but he loved the Swoodilypoopers in his own way, and he was really an excellent footballer. John silently hoped that he would make the jump to the Premiership, his most recent misstep notwithstanding.

"Sorry, mates," Cteve was saying. John assumed he must have been looking at him and Bald John, but his glasses made it difficult to be sure. "I… I'd been drinking with Peter, and you know how he sets me off…"

"It's alright," Bald John assured him. "Let's just get to practice." John recognized the clips of lingering tension in Bald John's voice, but if he was willing to bury the hatchet, John wasn't going to insist otherwise.

John offered Cteve a small smile. "Come on, you're going to want to sweat off that hangover."

* * *

The Johns finally bought their new home in early May.

The process of acquiring it was been a long one. They spent two months looking at every house in the city. They saw old brick houses that pre-dated Queen Victoria and sprawling converted barns just outside of Swindon that could have fit a family of five. Finally, they found it. It wasn't the same as the house they had looked at the year before, but it was in the same neighbourhood and had the same view of the park, the same neo-tudor façade, massive backyard, separate dining room, and spacious bedrooms. It was a twenty-minute walk from the stadium, and just down the road from the High St. It was perfect.

A week after signing everything, they were allowed to move in. They recruited most of the team to help them move and paid them back in beer and food.

The Johns had loved their old house, but it was clear within minutes of moving in that they had finally found their home. Bald John was already talking excitedly about planting some flowers in the front garden and growing his own tomatoes and rhubarb in the back. John, meanwhile, was brainstorming names for their hypothetical new cat. This was a place they could live in for the rest of their lives, if they so chose. This was a place they could raise kids in, though neither of them had yet been able to give that idea a voice.

As he had in the past, John found reasons to defer bringing up the kids idea. It was never the right time: their season was nearing a close, and the team was gearing up for the FA Cup final. John knew they both wanted kids, but they weren't ready yet. It was a conversation for a quieter time.

* * *

"I just think we owe her, you know?"

John kicked a slightly deflated football into the air with the toe of his right foot and bounced it from one knee to the other. He consecutively bounded it three times, but he miscalculated the fourth bounce, and the ball fell back to the ground. He touched it once more with the inside of his foot before returning it to Bald John, who stood idly on the other side of their new backyard.

"Who?" Bald John asked, accepting the pass and mimicking John's effort to bounce the ball from one knee to the other. He managed to keep the ball in the air for a full seven touches before he missed and passed the ball back to John. John missed the pass and had to retrieve the ball from amongst the roots of the apple tree behind him.

"Hannah, of course," John replied, jogging back to his position facing Bald John. "And Lee, really. I think we should do something for them. To… I don't know, express our gratitude or something."

Bald John smiled at him. "That's an excellent idea. What did you have in mind?"

John missed his next knee-touch and returned the ball to his husband.

"I've no clue," he admitted with a shrug. "I'd only gotten so far as the idea. I was kind of counting on you for the brainwave."

Bald John quirked a smile. "I'll give it some thought. Did you have any ideas?"

John shrugged as he watched Bald John successfully bounce the ball for so long that he lost track of his number of touches.

"I did have one idea," he admitted after a moment, "but it's silly. I wouldn't have a chance in hell of getting it."

"What's the idea?" Bald John asked, his eyes still focused on the ball.

"I wanted to get her tickets to the World Cup."

Bald John dropped the ball. It landed on the grass and rolled into the soft dirt under the hedge. "This year's World Cup?"

"It was just a thought…" John said sheepishly, aware of how ridiculous it was. Despite the distance between them, John could clearly see Bald John's incredulous half-smile.

Bald John quickly retrieved the ball out from under the hedge. With a touch he shot it across the lawn to John's feet. "That's a nice thought," he said, "but a little bit outside the realm of possibility, wouldn't you say? The World Cup has been sold out for literally years."

"I know," John nodded absently. He was much less good at the knee-touch game than Bald John and was promptly forced to return the ball to his husband. "It doesn't matter. We can just get them a bottle of wine or something."

Later that afternoon, John couldn't get the idea out of his head. He knew it was a ridiculous thought, but he couldn't think of anything that Hannah and Lee would want more than to see the final of the South African World Cup.

On a whim, and mostly because he figured he may as well try, John rang up the ticket office listed on the website for the 2010 World Cup. It rang through several times until an automatic messaging system kicked in and asked John to follow a number of different steps. Obediently, John pressed '1' for ticket enquiries, '3' for purchasing tickets, and '5' to be added to the waiting list.

Finally, a real person picked up.

"FIFA World Cup ticketing office, Martha speaking," said a pleasant voice in a chirpy Manchester accent on the other side of the phone.

"Hi," John said. He shifted the phone against his ear and sat up a little straighter at the kitchen table. All thoughts of the cup of tea in front of him were temporarily abandoned. "I'm interested in getting some tickets for the World Cup final in South Africa later this summer."

"Right, well we don't have any tickets available at the moment, sir," the woman – Martha – said. She sounded mildly irritated, and John supposed he couldn't blame her. They must have people calling up all the time looking for tickets to events that had long since been sold out. He felt incredibly stupid for even trying.

"Of course," he said readily. "Could I be added to a waiting list of some kind?" He was starting to feel embarrassed. Why had he thought this was a good idea?

"It's a long list, sir, but I'd be happy to add you to it."

"Great, thanks." John was just ready to get off the phone at this point, but he supposed it was at least worth putting his name down.

"Can I take your last name please?"

"Green," John said. "John Green."

"Thank you sir, and your address?"

John gave her their address. There was a short pause on Martha's end of the line. "John Green of Swindon?" She said eventually. "You're not… one of theJohn Greens, are you?"

"Guilty," John admitted with an awkward chuckle. "I'm Other John."

The woman let out a short noise of surprise. "Please hold, Mr. Green." The phone clicked off abruptly, and John's ear was filled with the sounds of Vivaldi's Spring. John sat back in his chair again, taken aback. Surely his name alone wouldn't be enough to free up such coveted tickets. He hadn't reached that level of celebrity, had he?

Bald John padded down the hallway a moment later. He gave John a soft grin.

"Who are you on the phone with?" he asked. He walked lazily over to where John was sitting and draped his arms across John's shoulders, resting his chin on John's shoulder.

"FIFA ticket office," John explained. "I'm trying to get those tickets for Hannah and Lee."

"The ones for the World Cup? Honestly, love, at this point you'd be better off trying to get them for the one in Brazil in 2014."

"I know it's crazy, but it looks like I might have a shot. I was putting my name on the waiting list, and the woman recognized my name and where I was from, and asked if I was one of 'the John Greens'. When I said I was she rushed off and put me on hold. I don't know, but it looks like celebrity might finally have some perks."

A minute later, this was found to indeed be the case. The next time the phone clicked on, there was a man on the line. He asked John a few follow-up questions in a European accent that John couldn't identify. John answered the questions, and within minutes he was being asked how many tickets he'd like to have and which matches he'd like to attend.

"Very good, Mr. Green, your tickets will be posted to the address you provided, and you should receive them within three working days."

"That's… thanks…" John said, still shocked that he'd been successful. Also slightly guilty that he'd managed to jump such a long queue of people who also wanted the tickets. He decided not to make a habit of this – it was only for Hannah and Lee's sake that he wasn't insisting they give the tickets to someone else.

He thanked the man on the other side of the phone again, and hung up. "Well," he said to Bald John, dropping his mobile onto the kitchen table. "That was a bit ridiculous."

* * *

The shriek that Hannah emitted was so loud that half the restaurant looked over at them, scandalized.

"John!" She shouted, paying no heed to their surroundings, "are you freaking nuts? What're you giving this to us for?"

John cast a gaze around the restaurant, suddenly self-conscious. "Do you mind?" he retorted with a smile. "We're in a public place, Han."

Hannah took a breath and lapsed into silence. She picked at her tiramisu while Lee snatched up the tickets from the restaurant table.

"These are real," he said, as though only now understanding the gift. "You are really giving us tickets to the World Cup Final?"

"I'm sure Manager John will give you the time off," Bald John said, as though that had been Lee's biggest concern. "Especially if we win the FA Cup final against Chelsea next week. Honestly, I think he'd let any of us get away with murder if we could manage to win next week."

Lee let out a breathy laugh. "This is too much, mates…"

"It's not," John replied firmly. "What we asked from the two of you – both directly and indirectly –" he nodded in turn to Hannah and Lee, "that was too much. This is a fair trade."

Hannah was shaking her head in disbelief. "I don't think 'thanks' is quite a strong enough word…" She sounded faint.

John let out a bark of laughter and grinned at her warmly. "Now you know how we feel."

* * *

* * *

It was five-thirty in the morning on the day of the FA Cup final. Manager John had not had a decent night's sleep in over a week.

He stood in the middle of his cramped office, examining the white board in front of him. There was a drawn-up plan of the pitch on the board, with eleven little red circles placed on it. Within each of the circles was a number written in black pen. Manager John had been obsessing over these little red circles for upwards of two weeks. 11, 9, 15, 25, 16, 17, 19, 29, 20, 4, and 2. His starting line up. He was staring at numbers, but saw the players they represented in his mind's eye. Should 25 – Lee – move back to defense? Should 6 – Cteve – sub for 18 – Beef Stock? Was he only allowing Ginger to start so that he could redeem himself after last year's final? Was that the kind of sentimentality that would lose him the FA Cup for the second year in a row?

"I've been waiting for this for so long," he whispered to himself in the empty room.

He sighed and sat down on the edge of his desk, still contemplating the little red circles on the board. It was too late for second-guessing now. Changes to the line-up on the morning of the match would suggest to his boys that he didn't have faith in their ability, and nothing could be further from the truth. He had nothing but pride, love, and respect for them all. The time for training was over, though. He needed to let go and trust his boys to bring it home.

There were times when Manager John really missed Patrick. His Assistant Coach was a narrow-minded, bigoted old fool, but still. He had also been calm, efficient, and incredibly reliable. He had always been ready, with a firm word, to bring John back down to earth when his flights of fancy got the better of him. He had a keen eye and was quick to identify faults or weaknesses in the team that John himself would never have caught. Patrick had a completely different coaching style. He drank too much and was rougher with the players than John would have liked. He had a short temper and far too much pride. But he'd been sharp, and John hadn't realized just how much he'd depended on the little Irishman until he was gone. Of course that wasn't to suggest that John regretted showing him the door. At his core, Manager John was an idealistic man, who believed that football could be made a classy, honorable sport once again.

He sighed and looked down at the stacks of files on his desk. The top file said 'Emilio Bolzoni' across the side. A yellow post-it note was stuck to the front of it. In Manager John's own messy handwriting, he'd written '8:00am'. He glanced at his watch. Still two hours before his first meeting. Just enough time to take a nap on the floor.

* * *

* * *

"For Chrissake, Em', it's the bloody FA Cup! Morning of, no less! I got you the tickets 'n everything last week. You're telling me now that you can't be arsed to make the trip?"

Cteve inhaled aggressively on his cigarette until he caught the filter in his lungs. Wedging his mobile phone between his shoulder and his ear, he flicked a second cigarette out of the pack and lit it from the dying embers of the first. He took another drag on the fresh one. It did little to calm his nerves, but at least it gave him something to do with his hands.

Cteve had always been a terrible fidgeter, even when he was a kid. He used to chew the ends of pens until they broke and all the ink spilled out onto his mouth. He remembered the way his mother would tisk her tongue in frustration and rub at his face with a damp flannel until his skin turned bright red.

"What did you expect, Christopher?" Emily continued, drawing Cteve back into their conversation. He knew she was only using his name to wind him up, so he bit back a retort and let her continue. "You only told me about this last week! We can't just drop everything and come running. It's a long journey and the trains are expensive –"

"I'll pay for the sodding train, if that's what you're –"

"This isn't about the train!" Emily shot back. Cteve took the phone into his hand and moved it a few inches away from his ear. "Work's very busy at the moment; I can't just take the day off…" Seeming to sense that Cteve was about the object again, Emily spoke louder and faster as she continued. "And Holly's got a dance recital today! She doesn't want to travel for five hours to watch you run around for twenty minutes. She wants to dance in her recital." Emily let out a huffing noise of frustration. "She doesn't even like football, Christopher!"

"And whose fault is that?" he spat.

"You can't hold me responsible for Holly's taste. She's old enough to decide what she enjoys and what she doesn't." Despite her words, there was no missing the self-satisfied smugness of Emily's tone. _Bitch,_ Cteve thought mercilessly.

"I want her there, Em." Cteve lowered his voice into a kind of plea.

Emily sighed. "Hold on… Alright, she's just waking up. You can ask her yourself." Cteve heard some shuffling noises on the other side of the phone. "Holly, sweetie?" Emily's voice sounded much further away. "Your daddy's on the phone, do you want to speak to him?"

Cteve could distantly hear the sound of Holly's voice, and his heart leapt at the sound. She was too far away for the words to be distinct, but the voice was unmistakably hers. "Come on, luv," Emily said, still speaking to Holly, "I know he wants to say hi…" Emily's voice was kind and gentle when speaking to Holly in a way that it hadn't been with Cteve for a very long time. He missed it, all of a sudden. The way Emily's voice would quaver softly when she was happy, as though she was constantly on the verge of bursting into peals of joyous laughter. Or the way a dimple would appear prominently on her chin every time she smiled. It had been nearly a year since he last saw her. He wondered if he could still make her smile. He doubted it.

Finally, after Cteve felt like he'd been waiting for an hour, Holly's gorgeous little voice sounded in his ear. "Morning Da'." She had the most beguiling Scottish accent Cteve had ever heard. It was charming enough that he could almost forgive Emily for taking his daughter all the way up there without him.

"Hey, Holly Polly! How are you, lovely?"

"It's early!" She yawned loudly into the phone. "The sun's not even up yet! But Mummy's making me breakfast, then I'm going to go to school, then I'm going to go to dance class, then we have a recital in the evening! Did Mummy tell you? I have a solo! Are you coming to see me?"

Cteve felt something hard well up in his throat. "Sorry, sweetheart, I can't. I've got… I've got kind of a recital myself this evening."

"Really?" Holly sounded childishly skeptical. "What kind?"

"It's the football kind. You remember I play football?"

"Oh yeah…" She didn't sound like she remembered that at all. "Will lots of people be watching?" she asked instead. "We have to perform in front of all the parents and friends. Mrs. Grady said there might be _twenty people_ there!"

"That's a lot!" Cteve agreed. "A couple of people will be watching mine. Maybe you'll be able to come see one of my recitals one day…"

"First you have to come and see one of mine!" Holly persisted. She didn't sound angry, but there was a definite hint of disappointment there. Cteve's heart sank.

"Okay baby, I'll come to your next one, how's that?"

Cteve could feel her pout through the phone. "Okay," she said at last.

"Okay…" Cteve sighed. There was a pause during which Cteve could hear Emily's voice calling in the background. "So how are things at home, Holls?" he asked.

"Fine, but I have to go. Mummy says breakfast is ready and that my eggs will get cold. Byeeeee!"

"Bye sweetheart! Could you pass me back to your mum –" Thick silence filled Cteve's ear and made him stop speaking. Holly had already hung up.

He stood on his tiny balcony for a few more minutes, finishing his third cigarette and watching the sun rise in Swindon. The air was cold and damp outside at this time of the morning, but he didn't care. This was Cteve's favourite time of the day. He'd never been able to sleep very well, and the view of the sunrise from his balcony was spectacular. The sky was smeared with vivid oranges and pinks, like a child had finger-painted the clouds. Apparently the richness of colour had something to do with the air pollution from the industrial district. As far as Cteve was concerned, it was worth it.

The sliding glass door squeaked from behind him. The brunette he'd picked up in the bar the night before was awake, then. He heard her bare feet step out onto the balcony.

"What you doing out here?" she asked. "It's seven in the morning!" Cteve looked around at her. She was wearing nothing but her lace pants from the night before and a t-shirt of his that he hadn't worn in ages. He could only assume that she'd gone into his dresser to get it. He sighed. No wonder Emily thought he was terrible father material. She was probably right. Not for the first time, he wondered whether she hadn't done the right thing in taking Holly to the other side of the country.

"Fuck, I need a drink," he muttered to himself. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

* * *

Sir Cuthbert walked up to the door of Manager John's office and knocked tentatively. The clock on the wall of the locker room said it was five minutes to noon. Cuthbert was early for their meeting, but he didn't think it would matter.

"One minute," Manager John's voice called out crisply from the other side of the door. Obediently, Cuthbert waited.

Three minutes later, he heard some shuffling inside the room, and the door to the office opened. To Cuthbert's mild surprise, Bodin Bodin emerged looking ashen-faced. A tight knot formed in Cuthbert's stomach. It was as he feared, then. Cuthbert opened his mouth to say something to his friend, but Bodin pushed roughly past him.

"Save it," he snapped angrily as he marched towards the exit.

There was nothing for it. Cuthbert could feel the axe swinging over his head, but he had no choice. He entered Manager John's office. His coach was sitting behind the desk, looking at him glumly.

"Close the door, Sir."

Cuthbert did. He stood awkwardly for a moment before sitting down in the chair that Bodin had no doubt just vacated. Manager John rubbed the bridge of his nose. Despite his own concerns, Cuthbert was not blind to how terrible his coach looked. The bags under his eyes were dark and swollen. He looked like he hadn't slept, showered, or shaved in days.

"You alright, coach? If you don't mind my saying so, you look appalling."

Manager John laughed dryly. "Thanks!" He sat back in his chair and took a slow breath. "It's been a long week, that's all."

"Well, coach," Cuthbert's voice was quite even, "maybe you shouldn't have put off these termination meetings until the day of the FA Cup final."

Manager John paled. "Maybe not," he agreed with a soft nod. "I'm not firing you, though!" he continued, as though he'd only just realized what Cuthbert had said, "I'm just transferring you."

"Six of one, half dozen of the other," Cuthbert replied. He felt calm, all things considered. It wasn't as though he hadn't known this was coming. He'd spent a lot of time warming the bench in the past two years. If he didn't see a lot of playing time when they'd been down in League One, he could hardly be considered Premiership material.

"I'm sorry." Manager John rubbed the bridge of his nose again. It had turned red under the force of it.

"It's not your fault," Cuthbert assured him. "You were right, what you said to Cteve and the rest of us after his interview with the Gazette; it's just the price of doing business. It's not your fault that we're not as good at football as Bald and Other John. It's not their fault either. It's not even ours. It's just the way of things."

Manager John blinked. "That's, uh, not a position that some of your teammates shared."

Cuthbert shrugged. "Doesn't make it any less the case. So where are you sending me?"

Manager John sat up and sifted through a file with Cuthbert's name on it. "Hexham FC. They're really quite a good team," he said earnestly.

At this, Cuthbert laughed aloud. "No, coach," he replied, still chuckling despite the sinking feeling in his stomach, "they really aren't."

"You haven't even seen them play!" his coach insisted.

"True, but I've also never heard of them. I'm a professional footballer, and I didn't even know Hexham had a team. I don't even know where Hexham is!"

"It's in Northumberland," Manager John muttered sheepishly. "About twenty minutes outside of Newcastle."

"The North, coach?" Cuthbert exclaimed indignantly. "Not even that! Birmingham is in the North – this may as well be in Scotland!"

"It is quite close to Hadrian's Wall, actually." Manager John spoke as though this fact was interesting and not the most dreadful thing Cuthbert had ever heard. He let out another noise of indignation.

"What happened to all your pragmatic 'it's the way of things' stuff?"

"Yes, well, that was before you were sending me to live with Geordies."

Cuthbert was only half-joking. It wasn't Northumberland that he objected to specifically, but the situation had abruptly become real. It was one thing to suspect that he wouldn't be able to continue playing with the Swoodilypoopers, and a whole other thing to hear that he was being sent to the other side of the country to play for a barely-professional team in the back and beyond.

"I really am sorry, Sir." Manager John said after a moment.

Cuthbert sighed. "You know I'm not actually a knight, right?"

"Of course." Manager John nodded. "It's just a nickname."

There was silence between them for a moment. Cuthbert felt he should probably leave and let his coach get on with firing more of his friends, but he couldn't bring himself to move.

"My father was," he said eventually. "Is, I should say."

"Is what?" Manager John asked.

"A knight. He was knighted by the Queen at some point in the 80s."

Manager John let out a surprised laugh. "I didn't know that! Why? What did he do?"

Cuthbert shrugged. "Something to do with the government. He had the dubious honour of being a Tory MP during Thatcher's great reign. He explained it to me a couple of times, but I never really understood. I expect he saved the country a load of money at the expense of half its population. Other than being a famous actor, isn't that the kind of thing people have to do to get themselves a knighthood?"

Manager John cracked a small smile. "I wouldn't know."

They lapsed back into silence. Still, neither of them moved.

"Why does no one ever call you by your first name?" Manager John asked suddenly.

Cuthbert was taken aback. "I don't know." He shrugged in his self-effacing way. "I always assumed it was because Nigel is a bit of a ridiculous name."

At this Manager John laughed aloud, and some kind of tension or stalemate between them was broken. Cuthbert rose from his chair and offered his hand to his coach.

"Thanks for everything, coach."

"It's been a real pleasure, Nigel."

* * *

* * *

The call came for Voluptuous at two in the afternoon, just half an hour before he needed to go meet the team at the bus.

" _Âllo_?" Voluptuous said, picking up the phone on its second ring. It would always be his instinct to answer in French, no matter how many years he'd lived in the UK. On this occasion, his instinct proved correct.

The man greeted him in the rich, fluid, familiar French of Ivory Coast. " _Bonjour. Je cherche monsieur Péricard_?"

When Voluptuous had confirmed that he was indeed Voluptuous Pericard, the man introduced himself as the Manager of a football team from Ivory Coast called _Jeunesse Club d'Abidjan_. As the man said his piece, Voluptuous leaned forward on the couch, listening intently. Alice – who had been resting her head on his shoulder – sat up alongside him. He could feel her eyes on him throughout his phone call.

When the man had finished speaking, Voluptuous thanked him politely and promised to get back in touch soon. He hung up the phone numbly. Had that really just happened?

"What is it?" Alice asked. She'd waited, patient and silent, while he'd been on the phone, but the suspense was clearly killing her.

"JC d'Abidjan would like to offer me a job. Starting defense…"

She let out a short gasp of thrilled surprise, and bounced slightly on the springy couch. "What an incredible opportunity!"

Voluptuous nodded. His mind was reeling in shock. Just last week Manager John had taken him aside after practice to inform him that – if he should want it – there was a spot with the Swoodilypoopers available for him next season. They wanted to keep him. They wanted him to play in the Premiership. Voluptuous had thought his prayers had been answered. This new offer, though… it bore thinking about.

Bald John was not the only player to have suffered injuries that season. Voluptuous himself had been out for nearly half the season with a torn tendon. Too much strain still caused the pain to flare up in his leg, even now. To make matters worse, he was already in the latter days of his career. Even at the peak of his physical ability, Voluptuous would only barely have been considered Premiership material. He had no illusions about the extent of Manager John's loyalty. Voluptuous might have a spot on the team, but that didn't mean he had a spot on the pitch.

"What do you think we should do?" he asked Alice. He shifted on the couch to face her and took both of her hands into his. She met his eyes with her steady, calm gaze.

"I think, my love, that this is a question of what you would like your priorities to be. And – maybe more so – what you would like to encourage our sons to prioritize in their own lives. There are two paths you could take: you could remain loyal to Swindon Town, a team that has certainly done a lot for us in the past five years. We could remain here. You would have a good reputation, as a player in the top league, but you would not get to play very much once the team is in the Premiership."

Voluptuous nodded, but said nothing, waiting for her to finish what she wanted to say.

"That is the first path," she said. "The second path would be to return home. You could play for an African team. Your name would not be in the British newspapers, and Gary Lineker will never talk about you. But, we could raise the boys among the rest of our family. They could get to know their cousins and aunts and uncles, some of whom they have never met. We could look after your parents and mine, as they get older. We could earn more money to pay for any education the boys might want to have. I could get a job myself, and not need to worry that our visas might expire. We would be able to provide for our family, even after your career is long over."

"You think that is what we should do, then?" Voluptuous asked.

"I think you are the man I chose to love, and if you decide that the Swoodilypoopers are your family and you cannot be parted from them, then I will support you, as I always have."

Voluptuous looked down at their clasped hands. He drew his fingers softly across the lines on her palms, thinking.

"The Swoodilypoopers are my team, and I love them," he said at last. "But you, the boys, and everyone we left behind in Ivory Coast, are my family. When our boys ask me what my favourite thing in the world is, I do not want to be a hypocrite when I tell them that it is not football, but you."

Alice smiled her wonderful open smile, her white teeth bright against her dark features. It was the smile that had made him fall in love with her when they were still only teenagers, and the smile that still adorned her features every time he caught her eye in the stands of the County Ground.

"We have been away from home long enough," Voluputous concluded.

* * *

* * *

The team's bus pulled into Wembley stadium at four in the afternoon. That was good, Daniel Lucas thought. It would give them plenty of time to get settled in and warm up. He wasn't sure when it had happened, but somewhere along the line in the past year, Lucas had stopped thinking like a player and started thinking like a coach. He clambered down the stairs of the bus, and jogged a couple of steps to catch up with Manager John. They walked side-by-side towards the players' entrance of the stadium.

"Never thought we'd be back here so soon," Lucas said, taking in the monumental structure in front of them. The glassy exterior was glinting so brightly in the afternoon sun that Lucas had to shield his eyes from the glare.

Manager John looked over at him. "Really? I had no doubt in my mind we'd make it back. You have to be sure, Luke. Because if you can't believe that they'll win, how can they?"

"Do you think we can win, though, coach?"

A look came over Manager John's features for a moment, just a flash, and then it was gone. Lucas thought it might have been hope. "Absolutely," he said at last, his voice as sure as anything.

Not for the first time, Lucas had the distinct impression that he was being groomed for leadership. It was a strange feeling, that of all the people on the team, Manager John had chosen him – a fat, alcoholic, middle-aged keeper with a very poor save percentage – as a possible successor.

"Thanks, coach." He didn't know why Manager John had chosen him, but he was incredibly grateful all the same.

Fat Lucas didn't hate his nickname as much as everyone assumed. He'd learned to embrace it a long time ago, to the point that it had become a term of endearment as opposed to a slur. One of the things he'd learned while he was recovering from his alcohol addiction was that it was no one else's job to make him happy. There were many things in his life that he regretted or that he wished he'd done differently. But it was up to him to reconcile himself to his choices and try to find happiness all the same. Walking into the players' entrance of Wembley stadium for the second time, surrounded by the team he loved, Lucas thought he'd never been happier in his whole life.

His last ever professional match would be played against Chelsea FC, in a packed stadium of 90,000, with the Swindon Town Swoodilypoopers at his back. He wanted to win, he really did, but he thought he could die happy either way.

The air in the locker room was thick with anticipation and fear. The team began to dress in tense silence. All except Parry Parry, who hadn't been with the team for the FA Cup final last year and was taking in the locker room in wide-eyed amazement.

"This place is a freaking five-star hotel!" he exclaimed, breaking through the deathly quiet. "Have you seen the showers? The towels are embroidered!"

Other John, who was getting kitted up nearby, grinned at Parry. "Don't get too comfortable. We'll be back in good-old slightly-flooded County Ground before long."

"I don't see why we couldn't steal some of their aesthetic ideas, though," Bald John put in mildly from John's other side. "Coach? What do you think? Can we get some embroidered towels?"

"In red," Lee added.

"With the Swoodilypooper crest sewn on," Fitz chimed in. "And maybe some branded water bottles too."

"Glass ones," Cteve added.

"The benches could use a paint job, too."

"It's true," Lucas added, grinning. "These benches are all… shiny. Our benches aren't shiny!"

"What do you reckon, coach?" Other John continued. "Can we redecorate the locker room back home?"

"The walls could use some more colour," Ginger agreed. "Maybe they can be red too?"

"Or a mural!" Lallana said excitedly. "I know some artists –"

"Alright, alright!" Manager John cut them off. "Tell you what, boys," he called over their fits of laughter, "you win this match today, I'll hire a whole team to come in and fill the locker room with leopard print and shag carpets, how does that sound?"

"That sounds dreadful, coach. We'll clearly have to do it ourselves," Lee replied brightly.

"Deal," Manager John agreed.

The team laughed; all tension and fear had melted away in their excitement. Lucas watched the smile that passed between the Johns a moment later. They'd done that on purpose, he realized, to help the boys blow off some of their nervous energy before the match. Lucas made a mental note of that. However much he still had to learn from Manager John, he thought Bald and Other John might also be able to teach him a thing or two.

"Boys." Manager John's voice quivered slightly as he called them back to attention. The good humour in the air shifted. The boys – freshly dressed in their red and white kit – took their seats on the too-shiny benches and looked up at their coach in silent attention. "You're playing in Wembley Stadium. Again. Some of the best footballers in the world can play for a whole lifetime and never see a minute inside this stadium. You get to fight for the FA Cup for the second year running. Getting here once was unlikely. To be here again… it's nothing short of a miracle, boys. Whatever happens on that pitch today, we've already won. In four years, we've progressed from League Two to the cusp of the Premiership, and that's down to all of you. You've let me train you and teach you. You've let me mold you into fine young men and extraordinary footballers. And you've repaid me in your dedication and your talent. I am enormously proud of you all."

There was a beat where it seemed as though Manager John might continue speaking. His emotions seemed to get the better of him, however, and he waved a hand airily.

"I'm sick of the sound of my own voice," he smiled. "I've got nothing left to say. Let's go win the FA Cup, shall we?"

* * *

* * *

It was one in the afternoon in West Virginia. Matt, Nate, and their mother were huddled around Nate's laptop, watching the FA Cup stream illegally. Matt had popped the popcorn and Sheila had brewed the coffee. With rapt attention, they watched the match begin.

The ESPN commentators of the match were fond of pointing out that Johnny was American. Every time they spoke about him it was "American forward, Bald John Green," "famous American soccer player, Bald John Green." The way they spoke about him, it was as though John belonged to the whole country.

Nate kept complaining about it.

"He's our brother! What're they doing, talking about him like they know him – like he's their buddy."

It was kind of sweet how protective Nate was being, but Matt thought his baby brother was probably overreacting. For his part, all Matt could feel was immense pride.

Other John sent a pass to John, and Matt watched as the pair of them ran down the field towards the Chelsea goal. They looked strange: tiny and in the grainy quality of an online video. It felt so surreal, trying to reconcile the little characters on Nate's computer screen with his brothers. Matt wished he could be there, but school and work had prevented any of them from making the trip.

The front door banged open and closed again.

"Sorry we're late!"

"How much did we miss? Has anyone scored?"

Myles and Richard rushed in from the foyer; their shoes still on, and still dressed in their work clothes.

"No score yet," Nate informed them, not taking his eyes off the screen.

Sheila rose from her chair and went to fetch two more for Myles and Richard. She returned from the kitchen and set the chairs before them. Richard kissed her forehead in thanks and took the seat on the end, leaning over the arm of the couch to see Nate's computer screen.

"How's it been going?" he asked.

"Not bad so far," Matt said. "They've had a few good chances, but we're only twenty minutes in. Plenty could still happen."

"And how long's the period, again?" Myles asked.

"It's not a period, it's a half," Matt explained. "It's 45 minutes, plus a couple of minutes injury time at the end."

Myles nodded silently. Soccer would never be his sport, but Matt appreciated that he was making the effort, at least. He didn't know all the details of what had happened between Myles and John, but he knew enough. They had reconciled as far as it was possible for them to do so. Matt had always trusted that they would. Myles could be hot-headed, defensive, and obstinate, but he was also fiercely loyal, and no amount of disagreement could shake his love for his brother.

"Oh look, it's Johnny!" Myles said, pointing to a blurry image of John on the screen.

"Careful, Myles, your enthusiasm is showing." Nate grinned.

Myles responded with a carefully aimed punch to his youngest brother's arm. Nate yelped in pain, and Sheila reprimanded Myles with a gentle cuff to the back of the head.

"Manners," she scolded.

"Sorry, Mom," Myles and Nate chorused back to her.

They watched in silence for a few minutes, until a particularly good attempt by Other John to head the ball past the Chelsea keeper. Matt, Nate, and Myles rose in excitement, only to collapse back down onto the couch when the keeper caught the ball. Myles let out a quiet groan of disappointment.

Matt grinned and wrapped a gentle arm around Myles' shoulder. "We'll make a soccer fan of you yet, brother!"

* * *

* * *

Hannah Macmillan groaned so loudly when Cech caught John's header that she drew scandalized looks from the BBC and Sky photographers next to her.

"Sorry," she muttered, blushing.

The bloke from the BBC flashed her an awkward smile, but the action of the match quickly drew his attention back to the task at hand. The air was again filled with the loud clicks of fast, high-powered cameras.

Before returning to her own camera, Hannah quickly wrote down _37th min, header from OJ, utter failure,_ in the Moleskine notebook lying open on the table beside her. Setting down the pen, she peered back down the view of her camera. It could hardly hope to compete with the high-definition rapid-frame-rate of the cameras some of her competitors were using, but it was her best and favourite. The zoom was good enough that she could see the beads of sweat on Ginger's forehead as he battled Drogba at the top of the Swindon box. Ginger won the tackle in the end, and punted the ball forward to Fitz. Hannah, ever watchful, focused the camera on Fitz now, and took a few more photos as he danced the ball past Frank Lampard. He got cocky, though, when he tried to pass back to Beef Stock. Lampard easily intercepted and took the ball out of Swindon Town possession. Without looking up from her camera, she groped for the pen and wrote _Fitz: excellent control, terrible passing._

Possession bounced rapidly from Chelsea to Swindon for a few minutes: first Terry, then Lallana, back to Terry, to Cole, re-possessed by Lee, to OJ, to Bald John, re-possessed by Bosingwa. She didn't notice the ache in her arms as she whipped the heavy camera across the field, she was so absorbed by the lighting-fast speed of play. In all her years following the Swoodilypoopers, she'd never seen a match like it.

It felt like play had only been going on for five minutes before the referee was already blowing the whistle for halftime. _Nil-nil, standard Swoodilypooper,_ added to her notes. Of course she wouldn't actually say that in the article, but the notes she took during the match were hardly comprehensive. That's what Peter was for.

Hannah experienced all Swindon Town matches through the lens of her cameras. She followed her boys around the pitch like an eagle watching its prey. Or like a stalker, Lee had once said. The memory made her grin to herself, though she avoided laughing out loud, lest she run the risk of drawing further ire from the BBC photographers beside her.

As the players made their way to the locker room for the halftime rest and pep-talk, Hannah sat down in a plastic fold-up chair. _To be a fly on the wall for a Manager John, FA Cup final pep talk,_ she wrote, _ask Lee for exclusive._ Peter, who had been diligently taking notes on the computer beside her, handed her a bottle of water from the cooler at their feet. She accepted it with a quiet thanks. They hadn't been on the best of terms since he'd published his interview with Cteve, but she found it remarkably difficult to stay angry with him. He was like her screw-up older brother – riddled with poor decision-making skills, sure, but still her family. Besides, they were in the press box of Wembley freaking stadium covering the Swoodilypooper's second FA Cup final. Who could hold a grudge on a day like today?

As though sensing her thoughts, Peter sat back in his own chair, looking out at the pitch below them. "Hell of a thing, isn't it?"

"It is," Hannah replied, nodding.

"They really could win this, you know…" Peter said, as though the idea was just now occurring to him.

"Of course they could! Honestly, Peter, have some faith."

He smiled at her wryly. "I guess we can't all be the world's most loyal and devoted fan."

"That's true," she replied, grinning, "I'd have to give up my plaque if you were."

Hannah wasn't actually kidding. For her birthday last year, the team had banded together to get her a plaque with those exact words engraved on it. It had been Lee and OJ's idea, obviously. How they could manage to embarrass and make her feel enormously loved at the same time was beyond her.

"Hey, I heard about your job offer from The Times, by the way," Peter said. Hannah nearly choked on her water.

"How?" she demanded. The sports editor from The Times had emailed her only yesterday to request a meeting. It wasn't even an official offer, it was just a 'conversation' about the 'potential' of a position. "I've only told my dad about it so far!"

"Oh, you know me, I've got my –"

"Sources, yeah yeah, so I've heard. Know what? I call bullshit this time. You hacked into my emails, didn't you?"

"Hannah," Peter said placating, "'hacked' makes it sound so hostile. I may have happened upon your emails while you were away from your desk, and an email from the Chief Sports Editor of one of the country's biggest newspapers may have caught my eye…" Hannah backhanded him hard in the arm, which only made him laugh.

"You're unbelievable," she snapped. "I should bloody report you."

"Look, I'm not going to go writing an exposé or anything, I just wanted to ask you about it…"

"I'm not going to take it," she said firmly.

"Not even the meeting?" he pressed.

Hannah hesitated. He seemed to take her silence as a confirmation and let out an indignant huff. "After everything we've given you, you're going to abandon us for the big leagues?"

"I just said I'm not going to take it!"

Peter eyed her suspiciously, but stopped pushing. Hannah sighed. She really didn't have any intention of taking a new job, but it seemed rude to not even meet with the man, especially when there wasn't even an official offer on the table. All he'd said is that he wanted to have a conversation with her. Having contact with major sports editors was valuable, and shouldn't be shunned just because he might offer her a job she didn't have any plan of accepting. She would take the meeting; that didn't mean anything would come of it.

"Look," Hannah began, "don't mention this to –" she was cut off by a loud cheer from the stands. She looked down and saw the boys flooding back onto the pitch. What she had to say to Peter could wait.

They had work to do.

* * *

* * *

The whole match, from the first minute to the 120th, felt like it had been played at 200% the usual match speed. There had been no gentle ebb and flow. There were no chances to regroup and plan the next attack. All of it was a constant, furious push and pull, like a never-ending tug of war, with neither side gaining ground. Leeroy Williamson had never known this level of exhaustion.

"I know it's been a difficult match, boys," Manager John said as they filed back into the locker room. "Grab some water. Rest for a bit."

Lee thought it was something of an understatement to say it had been a difficult match. 'Difficult' didn't quite do justice to the situation. He felt as though he had been voluntarily slamming himself against a brick wall for two hours. His whole body was aching, his mind had almost completely shut down, and that wasn't even the worst of it. The worst of it was that they still weren't done.

Lee was so dead tired that he could barely think, but that much had sunk in. It was generally accepted in football that penalties were a terrible way to end a match. They discounted the last 120 minutes of regular and extra time play. They threw out any extenuating circumstances, or flow of the match. Penalties didn't care if one team had 80% of the possession all match; they didn't care if the equalizing goal had been an unlucky own-goal of a defender's shin. Lee understood why everyone hated them, but he disagreed. Penalties were a clean slate: nothing else that had happened that evening mattered. All that mattered now were the two men facing off against each other, and the ball in between them. It was pure and simple. Lee lovedpenalties. He just wished the stakes weren't so high.

He sat heavily on one of the empty benches and gulped half a bottle of water in one go. When he set the bottle back down, he found Manager John sitting beside him on the bench. He looked less haggard than Lee had seen him all week. His eyes were blazing with determination as he clapped Lee hard on the shoulder.

"You're our best penalty scorer."

"Yes, coach." Lee nodded. He already knew that.

In general, Lee went largely unnoticed in terms of his sporting ability; he was a solid mid-fielder and an average centre-back. He could pass quite well, and he occasionally scored. He was a supporting team member at best. Manager John rarely had cause to pull him aside for a tactical discussion – as he frequently did with the Johns – but he also never had to discipline him in the way he did with Cteve. Lee flew under the radar among most of his teammates. He liked it that way. The only thing he really shone at were penalty kicks.

"I'll bring it home, coach," Lee continued when Manager John didn't respond.

His coach nodded, though he didn't look overly convinced. He doesn't think we can win, Lee realized. Maybe he was right, but Lee would do his best to prove him wrong. Manager John sat quietly on the bench for an awkward beat. Then, without saying another word to Lee, he stood up and quickly ended up in conversation with Lucas.

Lee lay back on the bench, trying to relax. He wished Hannah were here. She was in the stadium, of course; up in the jam-packed press box with Peter and Glenn, taking as many photographs as her various cameras could manage, and jotting down notes for the article write-up. She was watching, but she wasn't here.

He looked over at the Johns, sitting together on one of the benches, and his heart went out to the pair of them. Resting together on the bench, they seemed to have abandoned any pretense of physical distance between them. Bald John was curled into John's chest, and John was resting his head on Bald John's back. They were like cats, curled up around each other. Meanwhile, everyone else had collapsed all around the locker room. Ginger and Fitz were lying on the floor a few feet away. It didn't look as though they even had enough energy to lift their water bottles to their lips. No one was paying the Johns the least bit of attention.

Lee felt a burst of something approximating pride. He felt enormously lucky to have ended up on a team with such decent men.

"Alright boys," Manager John's voice called out to them a few minutes later. "It's time."

* * *

* * *

John would be fifth to take a penalty shot for Swindon. He stood in the short line at the top of the box, between Parry Parry and Beef Stock. His legs felt numb, his head was swimming, and his heart was pounding in his throat. The whole of the last two hours had been a prolonged adrenaline high, but he could feel the exhaustion clawing at the back of his eyelids now. He jumped a few times on the spot to try and orient himself with the situation and the people surrounding him. It was no good: he was completely and utterly spent. He was also a terrible penalty-taker. It should be Bald John up here, not me. Whatever the reason, Manager John had selected John to take the shot instead. His husband couldn't help him now. Bald John was trapped on the bench with most of the other Swoodilypoopers, forced to watch as only a handful of men decided the whole team's fate. The only thing worse than taking one of the penalty shots was sitting on the bench watching other people take the penalty shots.

The whistle blew, and Lampard stepped up to take the first shot. It was over in seconds with a swift, hard kick into the left side of the net. Fat Lucas barely had time to register the attack before Chelsea was up 1-nil.

A sinking feeling in the pit of John's stomach, which had been building all evening, grew in strength. After all this, all the endless practice, the grueling run up, and the longest match he had ever played. After all of it, they could still lose.

The whistle blew again and Lee stepped forward this time. Dimly, John heard his teammates shouting encouragement from the benches. For his part, John's throat was too dry to utter a word. Lee didn't hesitate; he simply ran up and took a clean, simple shot down the middle. He scored. John felt a rush of temporary relief, before his nerves seized up again as Malouda stepped forward for Chelsea.

Malouda's shot was sent low to the bottom-left corner of the net. John watched, as though in slow motion, as Fat Lucas dove in the same direction. His fingers brushed the ball, and John nearly cried out for joy. But the force of Malouda's kick was too strong, and the ball careened over to top of Lucas' fingers and into the goal. Disappointment kicked John hard in the stomach.

Voluptuous stepped up next, cool and collected. As though this was no more strenuous than a casual afternoon practice, he sauntered up and hammered the ball past Cech. This time, John did manage to cheer, though his voice sounded strained and dry, even to his own ears.

Maybe we can, a hopeful voice said doggedly in the back of his mind. Maybe there's just a chance. Within minutes Alex had scored one more for Chelsea, and Lallana had done the same for Swindon.

Three-three.

Anelka strode up to take the fourth penalty for Chelsea. His shot was hard, and extremely powerful, but he aimed too far left. The ball hit the left post with an almighty thud, and ricocheted harmlessly out of bounds. John heard a shriek of delight from the benches that could only have come from Manager John. Anelka had really missed, then. John wasn't so exhausted that'd he'd started hallucinating. That was good to know, at least.

Next came Parry Parry. John clasped a reassuring hand on Parry's shoulder as he stepped forward. Their youngest Swoodilypooper shook violently with nerves as he walked up to the penalty line. He didn't look nearly as imposing as the Chelsea players, but John knew better. The boy had some heart to him. Sure enough, though he stumbled slightly on his run up the ball, he managed to chip his shot over the right should of Cech and into the goal.

"He's a platypus!" Manager John was screaming from the sidelines as Parry, still shaking, returned to John's side. John gave him a one-armed hug in congratulations for the successful penalty.

"Is he saying I'm a platypus?" Parry asked surreptitiously to John.

John grinned in spite of his nerves. "I think so, yeah."

"Why? What does that even mean?" Parry asked, bemused.

"I have no clue, mate. Could be worse, though. You could be called John, and then what would we do?"

Parry laughed. John was grateful for the momentary distraction, if only because he thought he might throw up as he watched Zhirkov prepare his shot. If Fat Lucas stopped this, it was all over.

Zhirkov missed.

The ball hit the cross-bar with such force that the whole goal shuddered, but it made no difference. The ball itself bounced high over the back of the net and out of bounds. Chelsea had lost 3-4. This meant that Swindon Town had won. As Lucas began running towards them, his eyes blazing with joy, the truth began to settle in. They'd won. On penalties. John watched Lallana, Lee, and Voluptuous lift Lucas onto their shoulders in celebration, and it all suddenly became real. He, Parry, and Beef Stock began sprinting towards the rest of them, whooping in celebration. John caught up to Lee and Fitz, and hugged them both, one in each arm. There was a loud bang from somewhere above them, and confetti began raining down onto the pitch. John looked up at the red and white rain. He laughed.

The match hadn't been perfect, and their win wasn't impressive or fancy, but it was still one for the history books. Wembley stadium was in such an uproar of noise that John could barely think straight through the adrenaline, the endorphins, and the sensory overload. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, Bald John was there too. His smile burst with unrestrained joy. With the familiar spark of determination in his eyes that John loved so much, he marched right up to John and didn't hesitate. There, in the middle of Wembley stadium, he picked John up in his arms and kissed him with wild abandon.

John could hear the laughs and teases from his teammates, but there was nothing in the world he cared less about. He allowed his passion to get the better of him, and threw himself into Bald John's kiss. When they finally pulled apart, Bald John let out a breathless laugh.

"You have confetti in your hair," he said, brushing his fingers through the short hairs at the back of John's neck.

* * *

* * *

"Listen, we'll catch you up!" Bald John called to the rest of the team as they poured off the bus in the County Ground parking lot. "OJ, here, just needs to grab his jacket. We'll meet you at the Giraffe."

"Oi!" Cteve called to their backs, "no shagging in the shower, you hear? We all still have to use them!"

The team laughed raucously. Many of them had already managed to reach low levels of intoxication while still on the ride home from London. Even Other John let out a quiet chuckle, his hand warm in Bald John's.

"Of course not," he muttered for Bald John's ear only. "That would be against the rules."

He laughed and tightened his grip on Other John's hand. The sounds of their teammates faded in the distance as they disappeared down the hill towards the pub. Bald John could breathe easier in the silent night air. It went without saying that he loved his team, but they could be exhausting, and it had been a very long evening. Give him some peace, quiet, and Other John's company. That was all he needed.

The door to the player's entrance was locked when John tried to push on it. "It's locked," he said redundantly.

Bald John grinned at him. "Of course it is. Here," he produced his keys from the pocket of his jeans and unlocked the door.

"Manager John gave you a key to the stadium?" John asked in awe. Bald John winked at him, grinning at the expression of jealousy on his husband's face.

"You're cute when you're outraged. Go on."

Bald John followed his husband into the empty locker rooms. Some of the lights were on a sensor, and flickered to life as they walked inside. He grinned around the room. It was certainly in sharp contrast to the majesty of Wembley stadium. Everything in the County Ground felt vaguely damp and smelt of moldy carpet. Still, it was home.

Other John wasted no time in tracking down his jacket, which he'd left strewn across one of the benches at the end of practice last week. He slipped into the worn, black cotton jacket and zipped it up.

"Lovely," he said, adjusting the coat around his shoulders. Other John hadn't stopped grinning for a moment since they'd won the cup three hours ago. "Shall we go meet the others?"

Bald John sauntered forward, wrapped an arm around John's waist, and pulled him in for a slow, languid kiss. "Are you in a rush, Green?"

Other John, a little flushed, shook his head dumbly.

"Wonderful," Bald John replied. "Follow me." He dropped his arm from Other John's waist, but didn't let go of his hand, as he led his husband across the locker room, through the tunnel, and back outside.

The pitch looked beautiful in the dark, lit only by the moon and a smattering of stars. Other John stepped forward, walking aimlessly across the grass. Bald John followed alongside, unwilling to part their hands.

"It's a beautiful night," Other John said quietly.

Bald John hummed in agreement.

For a while, they said nothing at all, just continued their slow meandering of the pitch's perimeter.

"I thought Manager John was crazy when I first met him, you know?"

"That's fair enough," Bald John answered. "The man is certainly a bit eccentric."

"Sure," John agreed with a shrug, "but I mean, I thought he was properly nuts. There he was talking about the Premier League, and all these great ambitions he had for the club, while I was just thinking we'd be lucky to remain in the professional league at all. That was before I met you, of course," he amended.

Bald John grinned at this. "Really? On my merit alone you were convinced we'd make it to the Premiership?"

John let out a warm laugh. "Not even close, no. But I was convinced that we might stand a chance at winning a match. Ever."

"You sure do know how to flatter a man," Bald John replied dryly.

Other John chuckled, and leaned over to kiss him placatingly on the cheek. They walked behind the goalposts, and Bald John imagined the glistening raindrops on the fabric were fairy lights. The only sounds were the soft ruffling of their shoes upon the damp grass, and the occasional whirr of a generator from somewhere in the stands. Finally, they arrived back at the mouth of the tunnel. A light wind had picked up, and Bald John let out an involuntary shudder. It might have been May, but they were still in England, and he couldn't stand the cold.

"Shall we go?" Other John asked.

Bald John nodded through his chattering teeth, but stopped once more at the edge of the pitch to admire the view. The white chalk lines were only just visible in the half-light of the moon. "I really love this place."

"Yeah," Other John agreed, "and I'll love it just as much when summer training starts next week, and we're running drills across this field from dawn 'till dusk. In the meantime, I think we've earned a drink, don't you?" His husband tugged lightly on his hand, urging him towards the exit.

Bald John grinned and reached up to run a hand through Other John's hair. "Come on," he said, at length. "Let's get to the pub before the rest of them drink the place dry."


	5. Epilogue: Brazil 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little epilogue to the Johns Green story. I've been wanting to write a final something for a little while, and the World Cup provided the ideal inspiration. I hope you like it!

* * *

Other John Green regarded himself in the bathroom mirror of his hotel room. His fingers beat a nervous tattoo against the porcelain sink. Steam fogged the bathroom mirror, reflecting back a cloudy, distorted image of John's own face. John thought he might prefer his reflection like this – this way he couldn't see the thin wrinkles that were etched into his forehead, or the subtle laugh lines that had taken up residence around his eyes. Best of all, he could no longer see the premature cluster of grey hairs that had formed at his temples. All undeniable signs that his days as a footballer were numbered. This would probably be the very last time he got to play for his country. Or else it would be Bald John's. One way or the other, their careers were nearing an end.

"Hey." Bald John's voice drew Other John from his self-pity.

His tall, bald husband was looking at him thoughtfully. Leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom in a ratty Team USA t-shirt and a pair of faded Swoodilypooper shorts. He held two plain white mugs, both steaming with freshly brewed coffee. With a knowing smile, he handed one of them to his husband. John's hand shook when he reached up to accept the mug.

"Nervous?" Bald John asked with a quirk of his eyebrow.

"You wish," John shot back, a grin pulling at his lips. "I was just thinking…"

"Tsh, John –" Bald John pushed himself lightly off the doorframe to wrap an arm around Other John's waist. He leaned his chest against John's back and rested his chin on Other John's shoulder. "– you know that can only get you into trouble. We're footballers. We're not paid to think."

A smile spread slow and languid across Other John's features. "Bit rich coming from you, college boy."

John felt Bald John chuckle against his back. "Fair enough," he conceded. "What were you thinking about?"

Shifting their position a little, John took a sip of his coffee. It was dark, rich, and smoother by far than the instant garbage he'd become accustomed to back home. He made a mental note to stock up on some Brazilian coffee before they left. "Do you feel like we might be on borrowed time?"

"In what sense?"

"Well, all this…" Other John gestured vaguely around the bathroom. As bathrooms went, it was fancier by half than was strictly necessary. It had a high ceiling, a jacuzzi on a raised platform in one corner and a separate shower cubicle against the opposite wall. The countertops were glistening marble; the sink was a wide, shallow scooped basin that spanned the length of John's arm. The bathroom alone was probably bigger than the kitchen had been in the Johns' first house. It was – by and large – the kind of over-priced extravagant hotel room that one would expect a member of the men's First 11 English football team to occupy during their World Cup effort.

"Sure," Bald John agreed, "anyone who comes to demand this kind of opulence is doing something seriously wrong."

"I don't just mean this hotel room. I mean –"

"I know what you mean. All of this."

"Yes. Doesn't this whole thing feel like something we've borrowed that we'll need to give back soon?"

Bald John smiled and wrapped his arm a little more firmly across Other John's chest. "Sometimes I feel that way about everything in my life."

Other John let out of a huff halfway between amusement and exasperation. "You're such a sap."

"You love me anyway."

That certainly couldn't be argued. John twisted around to face Bald John and kissed him firmly. Conscious of his mug, John tried to balance as much as he could, though he heard some coffee splash onto the slate tiles of the bathroom floor as Bald John leaned into the kiss. He tasted of coffee and mint toothpaste. John tried to capture the moment in his memory. He wanted to hold onto the feeling of fear, anticipation, comfort, and joy that had been burning through him all week. He wanted to savour every last moment of the greatest thing the two of them would ever do. This was it. This was the very height of their professional careers.

Bald John pulled away abruptly, letting out a soft noise of surprise and pain. Some of Other John's coffee had spilled onto his bare toes.

"Sorry!" John exclaimed, fighting a laugh.

Bald John shook his foot, trying to kick the drops of coffee off his toes. He cast John a look of bemusement. "Can't take you anywhere, you menace."

"You love me anyway," John retorted, tongue between his teeth.

"I do, quite." Almost reverently, Bald John reached up to run a hand through John's hair.

"I meant what I said, you know. About borrowed time."

"I know you did, but John, you're missing the point. Besides, now's not the time for that line of thinking."

"No?" Other John asked, looking up at his husband. "What is it the time for?"

In a short movement, Bald John had his chest against John's, leaning down to brush his lips against Other John's neck. "It's time…" he whispered against John's ear, "… for you to get your ass handed to you in front of millions of people."

Other John laughed despite himself, the noise deep and low in his throat. "Bring it on, old man."

* * *

The warm Brazilian air hit them like a wall as they stepped out of the air-conditioned hotel lobby. The puff of Other John's hair was not designed for this kind of humidity, and had responded defiantly by ballooning out to a gravity-defying mass atop his head. He envied Bald John's lack of hair more and more the longer they spent in this climate.

Waiting outside the hotel entrance was the sleek black Team England bus, idling as the players milled around outside it. Upon noticing the Johns, they were met with a chorus of jeers and catcalls.

"Sleeping with the enemy, OJ?" Lallana – the only other former Swoodilypooper on the English team – was grinning at them both.

"Only occasionally!"

"You only occasionally sleep with him?"

"He's only occasionally the enemy."

Lallana laughed and clapped each of them on the shoulder in greeting. "How's it going, Bald John? Having a good World Cup so far?"

Bald John shrugged. "Can't complain. Wouldn't say no to going two consecutive days without flying to another city."

"Well, not to worry," Lallana replied brightly, "you'll get to fly home tomorrow!"

Bald John let out a bark of laugher. "One of us will. But I've seen your possession stats, my friend, and I think you might be in for a bit of a rude awakening."

"Careful there baldy." Wayne Rooney – in all his aloof glory – piped up from behind them. "Think you'll find you're a little outnumbered to be throwing around fightin' talk like that." He swaggered down the hotel steps to join them, dressed in a zip-up grey hoodie and battered jeans. One fist was shoved in the pocket of his hoodie, the other cupped a takeaway coffee cup. Dark sunglasses covered much of his face.

John refrained from commenting on the irony of Wayne Rooney calling anyone 'baldy'. He felt this showed great strength of character and restraint on his part. Any sense of awe Other John might have felt towards Rooney had dispelled years ago – about ten minutes after their first meeting. Turned out Rooney was far too much of a prat to take seriously.

"Oh save it for the pitch, Rooney." Gerrard appeared at the door of the coach, looking down on them all a little imperiously. He spied Bald John and gave him a nod in greeting. "Good game, today, Green."

"And you," Bald John acknowledged with his own nod back. Turning to Other John, he said, "I best be off. The yanks will be expecting me."

"They will," Other John agreed. An unexpected tightness formed in his chest. Some part of him was excited to play against Bald John, but he couldn't shake the overwhelming feeling of _wrongness_ that accompanied it.

Other and Bald John had both been so busy darting around the country that they'd barely been in the same city for more than a couple hours during the whole of the World Cup. So playing against each other had provided them a rare opportunity to spend a whole night together. Meaning, though, that one of them had sacrificed the hotel room they'd been booked with the rest of their team. Bald John drew the short straw, so he needed to trek his way back across Brasilia to the hotel when the Americans had spent the night, and where their coach would be waiting to take them to the stadium.

"See you soon," Bald John said, his features bright with anticipation. They shared a brief kiss – to which the English team loudly chorused their displeasure – and then Bald John was gone, jogging off to meet his own teammates.

John was just on the verge of regret at their needing to play opposite each other, when a gaggle of Brits – dressed to the nines in English jerseys and St. George's cross face paint – noticed them. They swarmed towards the team, cheering and taking their photos. Rooney immediately rushed onto the coach to avoid them, but John, Lallana, and a few others stayed outside, smiling and signing anything that was thrust into their hands. The supporters were a tumult of noise and adrenaline, talking about where they were from, how far they'd come for the match, how excited they were. No matter how famous John became, no matter how many clubs he played for, this novelty had never worn off. Pride burst to life like a living thing in John's chest. Oh yes, he remembered. He was going to win this.

* * *

John was, somehow, not remotely surprised when they ended up going to penalties. The heat had remained completely unforgiving from the first touch to the final play. By the 120th minute John wanted nothing more than to dunk his head in a bucket of ice and never venture into direct sunlight again. Every inch of his exposed skin was a bright angry red, and his legs were about ready to collapse out from under him. He would be feeling the sunburn for weeks. As the final whistle blew, indicating an end to extra time, John and his fellow teammates collapsed where they stood. John landed heavily in a patch of shade hugging the edge of the left-side of the pitch. Assistants moved among them, handing out bottles of water. John accepted one gratefully and drank half the bottle in one go. All around him, players were pulling themselves up and stretching, or helping one another to stretch. Penalties. Joy. John collapsed back to the ground, utterly spent.

"Hey there stranger." John was jolted as a familiar pair of hands lifted his right leg into a hamstring stretch.

John blinked up at Bald John.

"Your teammates are over there," John said, indicating the opposite side of the pitch.

"Oh, they'll be fine. You, however, look awful."

"Charming."

"That's the aim." Bald John dropped John's right leg back to the ground and picked up the left one. John lay down and tried to focus on breathing.

"Fuck, I'm knackered."

"Nearly done, now," Bald John assured him, pushing his leg deeper into the stretch. "Just a bit more kicking then we can all go home."

"Not a moment too soon. I'm too old for this crap."

"You're telling me."

As Bald John released John's left leg, John heaved himself from the earth to return the favour.

"You've been playing well enough for an old man," John told him as he lifted Bald John's right leg into a stretch. He propped the leg on his shoulder and leaned in, pushing against the pressure of Bald John's leg.

"Now who's the charmer?" Bald John smirked at him.

John shrugged. "Here I was trying to compliment you."

"Ha. Well, thanks for that."

Dimly, John noticed that their image was on the big screen inside the stadium. One of the cameras must have zeroed in on the fact that they'd crossed enemy lines. The crowd was cheering or booing or laughing, John really wasn't sure which. He ignored them as he swapped sides and completed Bald John's stretch. Eventually the cameramen got bored and went back to filming the attractive Brazilian women in the stands. When John finished he sat down on the pitch beside Bald John.

"It's been a tough match," he said. "You're right that we'd been underestimating your skill."

"That's your problem, you English. Just because you invented the sport, doesn't mean you're automatically all that good at it."

"I'm not sure I like playing against you, Green. Your competitiveness is showing." John was smiling all the same.

"You know if we win this it'll be the best that the American team has done since 1930? And we're so close. We could really do it."

"Tell me about it. We've got a whole country back home that's decided England's going to take the Cup this year. It's just our job to prove them right."

"Well, I guess we're at an impasse."

"So it would seem."

Bald John held out a hand to his husband, offering it in a handshake. John shook it, his expression impassive.

"Good luck, Green."

"You too, Green."

* * *

 

"What did you mean, before?" John asked, his head resting comfortably on Bald John's shoulder.

They sat together on the hotel balcony, looking out at the cityscape below them. The match was long over and the sun had set behind the skyscrapers of Brasilia, but the revelling continued. Brazilians and foreigners alike were down in the bars and cafes of the city, drinking their way towards dawn.

"When?"

"This morning, when I was talking about borrowed time, you said I was missing the point."

Bald John hummed. "The point isn't that this is going to end. Football isn't the point."

"Isn't it?" John asked, curling a little closer to Bald John. "Football is all we've ever done."

"So we'll do new things. The point isn't that we'll retire soon. The point is that we'll have a whole world left to play with. John…" Bald John's hand tightened around him. Drawing himself up, John looked at his husband, sensing the importance of the moment. "John, a footballer's schedule is ridiculous. We can barely find two days in a row to string together into a holiday. Once we retire…" he trailed off.

"What?"

"Well, if you wanted, we might have time for… well, other things."

"You mean… -"

"- Only if you wanted! -"

"…We could get another dog?!"

John was only feigning ignorance; it was worth it for the surprised laughter that burst from Bald John. "I was thinking a little more high maintenance than a dog."

"But Pele's been so lonely! She wants a friend to play with."

"Well," Bald John said evenly, "children can be friendly."

The joy and terror that this thought inspired was enough to rival any football match. John's every muscle felt like a live wire as he grinned, broad and open. "I'd like that."

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DFTBA folks - thanks for all your wonderful comments on this story.  
> C xx

**Author's Note:**

> A quick footnote for any American readers who are be confused about the English education system:
> 
> The UK education system is broken up in places where the American one is not, and it took me about a year to make sense of it when I first moved here. Essentially, students go through secondary school (high school) and write two major sets of exams: GCSEs and A-Levels. GCSEs are written at the end of Grade 10 (Year 11 in the UK, because it's confusing like that, but the equivalent is 10th Grade). Then they move up to sixth form for their final two years, during which they write A-Levels. But A-Levels are not a legal requirement, so some students drop out of education after finishing their GCSEs at about 16.


End file.
